


Seeds of the White Tree

by GreenScholar



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings: War in the North (Video Game)
Genre: Almárëa, Aragorn's getting older, Blood and Injury, Bromance, Canon Compliant, Elfwine is such a precious little shit, Eruthiawen, Expanded Middle Earth, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Fourth Age, Gondor, Half-Elves, Harad, M/M, Major Character Injury, Married Life, Minas Tirith, Mother-Daughter Relationship, POV Arwen Undómiel, Parent Aragorn, Permanent Injury, Post-Canon, Post-Lord of the Rings, Princess of Gondor, Slight Eldarion/Elboron, Somebody tell Legolas he's an elf lord now, Starting Anew, The Haradrim, The Haradrim are actually chill dudes, The Last Elf-Queen of Arda, Túrien
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-01-28 16:36:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 52,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12610884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenScholar/pseuds/GreenScholar
Summary: A story of the Fourth Age of Middle-Earth, told primarily from Prince Eldarion (Aragorn and Arwen's son) of Gondor's perspective. Sauron is defeated and the West is at peace, but there are still ghosts to face, and stories to be told.





	1. Days Renewed

* * *

 

_Et Earello Endorenna_

_utulien_

_Sinome maruvan_

_ar Hildinyar_

_tenn' Anbar-metta_

**OoOoO**

_Out of the Great sea,_

_to Middle-earth I am come_

_In this place I will abide,_

_and my heirs,_

_unto the ending of the world._

* * *

His first memory of his father was of singing.

Both of his parents loved to sing, and they did so often. When the long days of faces, voices and duties were over, both his mother and father would sit with him and sing songs of times gone by. Sometimes they would recline around the hearth, the warm glow of the flames dancing across their faces. Other nights when the air was warm and the skies were clear they would carry him out onto a balcony and sing in the starlight. Thus Eldarion, Prince of the Reunited Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor grew to love both firelight and starlight equally.

King Aragorn Elessar and Queen Arwen Undómiel were so much to so many people. To the soldiers of Gondor, Aragorn was their brother, their captain, their king. To the people of the realm Arwen was their beloved lady, the Star of the White City. To Eldarion they were simply Mother and Father, or sometimes Adar and Naneth, depending on which language they felt like speaking that evening.

It was something of a game their family played, to explore the many nuances of words and songs together. That was how Aragorn and Arwen taught first their son and then their daughters the many languages they would need in life. First came the easiest and most necessary; Westron, or the Common Tongue. Next was Sindarin, meshing swiftly and easily with the words of Men like strands of silver in a tapestry. After that followed the dictions of Adûnaic, Rohirric and Quenya as the children of the royal household grew up. Words were their toys, languages their games, all taught by the rich crooning voice of their father and the bell-like musical tones of their mother.

The children of Elessar and Evenstar grew swiftly and strong, known and loved by all the folk of Gondor. Eldest and the lone prince, Eldarion embodied all that was strange and beautiful in both his parents. From Aragorn he inherited the lean, coiled-wire frame of a Dúnedain ranger. That razor sharp readiness of a ranger was softened in Eldarion by a liquid grace that could only have come from a daughter of elf-kind. Likewise Eldarion took greatly after his father in shape of face and shade of hair. There was a light to the prince's dark grey eyes and a slant to his high brow that no man of pure mortal blood could have possessed. Eldarion may have been of the race of Men by all measures, but the mark of the Eldar still lingered as a ghost in his eyes and voice.

After Eldarion, Aragorn and Arwen had three shining daughters. First and eldest there was Eruthiawen, as noble as any queen even as a young girl. Only two years Eldarion's junior, Eruthiawen and her brother were near inseparable. She favored more their father in almost all ways, exempting her long wavy hair that shone like beaten copper and often prompted Aragorn to speak of his mother Gilraen. In manner however, Eruthiawen was indisputably the daughter of Arwen Undómiel. Always Eruthiawen seemed to understand things that many thought beyond her years, her clear grey eyes reading the character of all whom she met like the pages of a book. From time to time the queen would tease her husband that their daughter was better at diplomacy than he was.

Then there was Túrien, fey and unconquerable as a summer storm. Eldarion's earliest recollections of his second sister were of a tangled mess of black hair and incessant demands to join the boys in their play. Túrien and Eruthiawen often conflicted as sisters as prone to do when the demands of growing up shape expectations. For his part though King Aragorn loved his wild middle daughter with the fierce joy of one who meets and recognizes a kindred spirit in another. When Túrien reached her thirteenth birthday she received a bow and a quiver full of arrows, as well as a promise from Aragorn to teach her himself every third day. That gift from their parents had pleased Túrien more than any hoard of gold or jewels in all of Middle-Earth ever could have.

Last and certainly not least loved came Almárëa, the littlest princess of Gondor with five years between her and Túrien. Almárëa was everything that Túrien was not and vice versa. That did not stop the two from being completely and utterly devoted to one another. The king and queen almost had to compete with their second daughter for the right to adore Almárëa. At nearly twelve years of age Almárëa was still a child at heart, and no one in all of Minas Tirith was in any hurry to see those precious years end for her. From time to time though that did mean Almárëa could be a bit juvenile, but Eldarion would have been among the last to begrudge his youngest sister for it.

Beyond the household of the House of Telcontar, the city of Minas Tirith and the realm of Gondor slowly rediscovered the days of long-lost kingship. The city of Osgiliath was returned to its former glory, and once again arts and poetry came to flourish in the 'Citadel of the Host of Stars'. In the north the city of Annúminas on the shores of Lake Evendim was retaken from the retreating forces of darkness, and King Elessar made it his northern capital. From there he reached out to the remnants of the scattered Dúnedain, reuniting his people once more. The king would often bring his growing family there to Annúminas when time permitted, and it was there that Prince Eldarion and his sisters met the folk of their paternal ancestors. All could see the pure joy and sense of relief in Aragorn's eyes when he met with the Dúnedain in Annúminas. It was not until he saw his people reunited in peace and safety that at last Arathorn and Gilraen's son felt he had fulfilled his duty as the Heir of Isildur.

On their journeys to and from Gondor to Annúminas the royal family would often stop in Rivendell, there to visit the Lords Elladan and Elrohir. Eldarion remembered little of his early stays in the Hidden Valley, except that it seemed a quiet, almost reverent place. Ghosts of memory walked there, and always their mother seemed both happy and sad to be there. Arwen would walk long hours with her brothers, speaking of people Eldarion had never met and touching this bookshelf or that rose bloom. When he had voiced the sense of strangeness he felt in Rivendell, his sister Eruthiawen had taken on a pensive look much like the one their mother wore.

"There is history here, Eldarion, long years of love and memory that are now but echoes of the past. Mother lived that past, and being here I think she lives it once again. Now come, Father is telling the story of Beren and Luthien to Túrien and Almárëa."

Much more lively and full of energy were their visits to Ithilien and occasionally Rohan. The hills of Emyn Arnen on the borders of Ithilien were but a day's ride from Minas Tirith, and they saw a great deal of Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and his wife, The White Lady Éowyn. Their son Elboron was very close in age to Eldarion, and as the two boys grew into youths they pursued one another's company to no end.

As often as they saw Faramir, Éowyn and Elboron, they also saw Legolas, the elf-lord of Ithilien. The colony of Silvan elves from the Greenwood that Legolas had established there after the War of the Ring flourished, and the delight Faramir took at their presence was as obvious as the delight of the land itself. The once shadowed land on the doorstep of Mordor bloomed as clean and pure as white roses, and the perfume of growing things hung heavy in the air. Aragorn and Arwen were as welcome in Prince Legolas's home as he was in theirs, and it was all too easy for Eldarion and the princesses to come to think of the golden haired elf as kin.

On not-so-rare occasions Gimli, the Lord of the Glittering Caves was also present on such visits to Ithilien, having come to see his friends all the way from Helms Deep in Rohan. Almárëa loved the grumbling dwarf with a wild abandon, throwing herself at Gimli for a hug of greeting even as she grew older. Gimli for his part tried so very hard not to let anyone, Legolas least of all, see that the 'wee lassie' had gotten under his thick skin. Almárëa was near impossible to refuse though; anyone in Minas Tirith could have told him as much. Most visits ended with both the dwarf and the princess sporting an impressive masterpiece of braiding in their coppery beard and glossy brown hair respectively.

Although visits to Rohan were somewhat less common, the distance being greater and Rohan being an independent nation from Gondor, Eldarion always enjoyed the time they spent among the horse lords in the Golden Hall of Edoras. King Éomer was a gracious host, and the sounds and smells of Edoras were a never-ending source of adventure to Túrien. On one occasion she had snuck away from the watchful eyes of Aragorn and Arwen toward the stables. With Éomer and his queen Lothíriel's adolescent son Elfwine as her accomplice she had managed to get mounted on the back of a particularly spirited filly and go riding off at full speed through the streets of Edoras. In the end it had taken Haleth, son of Háma mounting up and chasing them down to get Túrien safely back to the Golden Hall. King Aragorn had been thoroughly amused by the whole episode, until a warning look from Arwen reminded him to deliver a sound scolding to Túrien upon her safe return. So great was the glee behind Túrien's contrite apology though that King Éomer had made a gift of the filly to the princess upon their departure. One of the first things Túrien had done after they brought the horse home was to take Almárëa for a ride at full gallop across the Fields of Pelennor. Eruthiawen had almost beaten the queen to it when it came to scolding Túrien for that.

In the heart of all these comings and goings bloomed a single white tree atop the Citadel. Eldarion would often stop to look up at the branches of the tree, and recall how his father had planted it from a sapling found on the slopes of Mindolluin behind the White City, discovered with the help of the long-departed wizard Gandalf. The dead tree which had presided over the long absence of the line of kings was even now sealed in the Tomb of the Kings. Every time Eldarion looked upon the White Tree, he felt a sense of deep, unspeakable pride well up deep within his heart. It was the symbol of his house, the symbol of his people, their long and noble ancestry. He, Eruthiawen, Túrien and Almárëa were the fruits of all the long years of struggle that the folk of the West had faced against the dark powers. They were not the only ones too. All throughout the lands of Gondor, of Ithilien, and of Rohan young people were everywhere to be seen. The laughter of children filled the streets of the White City where once there had been cries of war and sorrow.

Here follows the account of the Fourth Age, and the realms of the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth. This shall be the tale of heirs, of new chapters, and final journeys. The time has come for the dominion of Men.


	2. A Visit to Ithilien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eldarion and his eldest (younger) sister Eruthiawen enjoy a hunt in Ithilien with the Steward of Gondor and his family. Legolas decides to drop by unannounced for dinner, much to everyone's delight.

* * *

 

The beating of hooves echoed throughout the hills of forests of Emyn Arnen, carried on the breeze and made to sound as if they came from everywhere and nowhere. Three horses and their riders wove between the groves of birch trees, giving chase hot on the heels of a wild boar in the underbrush. The three hunters had been tracking their quarry for near on an hour, and now the game was up. The swine had at last caught their scent and run squealing away, freeing up its pursuers to abandon all pretense of stealth and ride openly after it.

Eldarion's horse Greyhame leapt over a fallen log, needing almost no urging from the prince to make the jump. Greyhame loved the thrill of the chase just as much as any youth of any species. His black mane rippling, the young gelding turned quick as a thought at just the lightest touch of Eldarion's knee. Eldarion had spotted the flock of starlings which had been disturbed from the thicket up ahead. No doubt their quarry was not far ahead now.

A cream-yellow horse darted around the trees on Eldarion's right, and he grinned. Typical of Elboron to hang back until the final charge, and then to surge ahead at the last minute. Elboron's father Faramir was not far behind, his aged chestnut horse Áre valiantly trying to keep pace with Eldarion and Elboron's much younger mounts. Elboron flashed Eldarion a brief, bright smile before urging his mare Baneth on through the thicket. Sensing a challenge, Greyhame gave chase with such enthusiasm that only Eldarion's quick reflexes saved him from getting slapped in the face by a twig.

Bringing Greyhame up alongside Baneth, Eldarion at last caught sight of the boar up ahead. It was a reasonably sized creature, large enough to leave quite the trail behind it as it pelted through the undergrowth. Even from a distance Eldarion could see the sweat glistening on the animal's hindquarters.

"Elboron, spear!"

Eldarion held out an open hand and without looking felt the heavy smack of a wooden shaft against his palm. They had done this so many times now that it beyond practice and more instinct. With his own spear in hand Elboron made as he always did to break off to one side and block the boar from swerving. Eldarion would likewise veer left, with Faramir coming up the middle between the two boys. Between the three of them this hunt would soon be over.

Then there was a sudden flash of white up ahead, followed by a surprised squeal that was abruptly silenced. Pulling up hard and fast on the reins Eldarion and Elboron barely managed to stop their horses short.

"Mother!" Elboron exclaimed, half exasperated and half impressed. "Was that really necessary?"

Sitting astride her tall white stallion SnowFire, the lady Éowyn casually leaned over and pulled her red-handled spear out of the dead boar.

"If you wished to make the kill yourself, you should have ended the hunt sooner before the poor beast ran straight to me." The White Lady of Ithilien tossed her long waves of golden hair with a pleased smile.

"And you just happened to be in the right place at the right time, is that it?"

Faramir had caught up to them, and raised an eyebrow knowingly at Éowyn. The Steward's light brown hair was touched at the temples by silver, as was his wife's. Unlike Faramir though Éowyn's fair tresses were light enough to mask the telltale signs that the two of them were not as young as they once were. The light of excitement shining in Éowyn's eyes made her seem a young Shield Maiden even still. When she shrugged innocently Faramir chuckled and Elboron gave a good-natured groan. Elboron had inherited his mother's golden hair and dimpled chin, along with his father's gentle blue eyes.

"Well, it seems that the hunt is over then." Faramir kissed Éowyn on the cheek. "Another clean strike, my love." Dismounting and tossing his long grey cloak over one shoulder, Faramir waved Elboron and Eldarion down off of their horses. "Come Elboron, Eldarion, help me get tonight's dinner trussed up for the ride back. No doubt your sister will be wondering what is taking us so long."

"She would be, if she had been content to sit and wait with her embroidery."

Eruthiawen's melodic, lilting voice sounded out from where Éowyn had appeared. Seated on her own dappled grey mare the eldest princess of Gondor rode out to join the others. Her smooth cheeks were flushed with the crispness of the late spring air, and she wore light riding gloves to match her night blue dress and silvery cloak.

"Perhaps next time you may as well spare us the surprises and simply ride out with us from the start." Eldarion brushed his dark hair back out of his eyes as he looked up at his sister. "Care to help us with this?" He gestured to the dead boar at his feet.

"You men-folk seem to have things well in hand." Eruthiawen observed drolly. "Besides, I did not come to hunt; I merely could not pass up an opportunity to see Lady Éowyn catch you all off your guard."

"Even if it comes at the expense of our pride as hunters, it will be nice to have your company on the ride back. Yours and Mother's both." Elboron paused in helping his father to gut and clean the boar to nod up at the mounted women.

"Pride always does have a way of coming before the fall." Faramir commented. "But dinner will taste just as good all the same."

It took the five of them no time at all to ride back to Faramir and Éowyn's home in Ithilien. It was a fair yet humble place, built of pale wood at the heart of the settlement they governed in Emyn Arnen. Nearly three hundred folk dwelt there, calling Faramir their lord and Éowyn their lady. The true beauty of their home was in its garden, which had been planned and planted by Legolas himself. Colorful bundles of sweet peas grew along the fences, filling the air with a delightful perfume. White hyacinth and pale pink spray roses mingled together beneath the windows, and ivy crawled along the outer walls. Butterflies and tiny birds floated from bloom to bloom. Trees stood tall around the edges of the settlement, the buds of new leaves offering to cast cool green shade across Faramir and Éowyn's home come the long days of summer.

Once the boar had been handed over to the cook, the all came together and settled themselves around the hearth in the main room. Eldarion and Eruthiawen had come visiting from Minas Tirith the day before yesterday. Túrien and Almárëa remained behind in the White City this time, mostly on account of Almárëa having caught a late spring sniffle. Under no condition would Túrien ever 'abandon' her beloved baby sister under such circumstances. Between Túrien, Arwen and Aragorn, Eldarion was certain Almárëa was enjoying some of the best pampering she had had all year. All Almárëa needed to do was bat her long dark lashes sorrowfully and even the King of Gondor would melt for his youngest child.

Shortly before dinner was ready there came a knocking at the door, light and quick. Faramir and Éowyn did not maintain a large staff of servants to wait upon them (excepting a cook and a gardener, the cook out of necessity owing to Éowyn's lack of talent in the kitchen). Thus is was Faramir himself who went to answer the door. To everyone's delight they found Legolas waiting patiently upon the step, his silver-gold hair unbound and glinting in the pale sunlight.

The prince formerly of the Greenwood had settled half a thousand of his people less than a dozen leagues away in Ithilien. The elves of the colony and the humans of Emyn Arnen had regarded one another cautiously at first. Over the years Legolas's friendship with Éowyn and Faramir had grown and deepened, and his presence became a familiar one to the people. In recent years some of the more daring human youths and children had even begun seeking out the elvish dwellings where they lay deeper in the woods of Ithilien. After some reassuring from their prince the elves had tolerated this, and even chanced foraying closer to Faramir and Éowyn's settlement themselves.

"Legolas, you come unexpected but not unwelcome!" Faramir cried, offering a hand of greeting to the elf before ushering him inside.

Time had aged Faramir's form and face in many subtle ways, but not so for Legolas. The famed Greenwood archer no doubt appeared as youthful he had long before any of them were even a thought, and would still be long after their lives had faded into memory and myth.

"Many times have my folk warned me that it is unseemly for an elf-lord to make appearances unannounced." Legolas smiled, giving away exactly what he thought of 'seemly' and 'unseemly'. "To make amends for my lapse I brought a gift, something for your table tonight." From under one arm he produced a small cake that Eldarion knew from experience was incredibly tasty, having been flavored with vanilla beans.

"You knew we were about to eat? As long as I live I shall never understand the preternatural intuition of your kind." Éowyn asked, rising to go and greet Legolas with a hand-clasp as her husband had done.

"Half of Ithilien can smell the roasting of meat on the wind. The elven half, that is." In jest Legolas feigned wrinkling his nose.

It was something of a standing joke among their circle of friends. Gimli had never given up on trying to coax Legolas to break from the traditionally vegetarian diet of the elves. Legolas had admitted once that not all elves refused to eat meat, but most feeling such close kinship with the creatures of Middle-earth could not bring themselves to "consume dead flesh". Still Gimli tried to tempt his friend with crispy bacon, broiled sausage and roast pork. Legolas had yet to yield, but from time to time others including Éowyn and Éomer couldn't resist joining in on the sport.

Faramir chuckled. "Well we have other dishes to serve as well, so you are more than welcome to join us, my friend. Eldarion and Eruthiawen are here from Minas Tirith, and so we shall make a party of it tonight."

"Mae go'vannen, Aragornion and Arweniel." Legolas greeted the two of them as he joined everyone around the hearth. "Eldarion, you look more like your father every time I see you! Or rather, more like your father when he was your age."

"Thank you, Legolas. It is good to see you again; we have missed you since Yuletide."

Eldarion couldn't help but swell slightly with happiness at the comparison. He had once heard an old Dúnedain Wise Woman by the name of Gelwin comment at Annúminas that seeing him and Legolas together was like seeing "those summer days in Fornost returned". Legolas and Aragorn both had seemed pleased and slightly nostalgic at that pronouncement, and Legolas had kissed the old woman's wrinkled brow.

After dinner was eaten and desert was enjoyed they all settled themselves for an evening of song and talk around the fire. Faramir and Éowyn sat together on the sofa, Éowyn with one hand on Faramir's knee and a goblet of rich red wine in the other. Eruthiawn and Legolas were singing a duet in the Sindarin tongue as Elboron listened, and Eldarion reclined with his long legs stuck out before him in a woven wicker chair. With a mischievous smile Eruthiawen switched songs and languages to an Adûnaic ballad halfway through the second verse, forcing Legolas to default to Westron or fall off tempo. Faramir shook his head in amusement at the battle of linguistics as Elboron applauded.

They were expected back in Minas Tirith the next day; Eldarion and Eruthiawen would be riding out on the morn. Faramir, Éowyn and Elboron, and also no doubt Legolas would be accompanying them on the short journey. Their father the king had called a meeting of his council concerning the ongoing matter of the Easterling and Haradrim resistance. It was a conflict that had never really died out, even since the Battle of the Black Gate and the defeat of Sauron. Eldarion and his sisters had grown up hearing of skirmishes, failed treaties and guerilla warfare with the former allies of Mordor. Things seemed to be coming to a head lately, and Eldarion was not sure if that concerned or encouraged him. Certainly his mother seemed to think something was about to give, for good or ill she and Aragorn were uncertain. All that was certain was that Aragorn and Arwen wanted this conflict over and done with as soon as possible. Eldarion came of age in a month, and after that there would be no more avoiding the inevitable. The place of a prince was with his people, in peace or in war.


	3. The Great Council of Gondor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things never change; Aragorn was not born to politics, Faramir will still be having a laugh at his king's expense when they're both old and grey, and Legolas likes to state the obvious.   
> Thank goodness Arwen, Éowyn, and Lothíriel are here to keep everyone on topic.

* * *

 

By far the least entertaining part of any meeting of the Great Council of Gondor was the preamble. That was, at least, in the High King's humble opinion. Trying to cultivate a little bit of his eldest daughter's preternatural patience Aragorn quietly sighed and straightened his shoulders. Politics and governing he could abide as necessary evils of kingship. All the trimmings of decorum that went with it he could happily leave though.

The Great Council met once a turn of the moons in the Dome of the Sun in the Sixth Circle of Minas Tirith. The Great Council had been an enduring feature of the kingdom of Númenor in its glory days, but had fallen into ruin with the coming of Sauron. After his coronation Aragorn had re-instated the Council, and formed it from all the great lords of the realm. Elphir, son of Imrahil sat for the Princedom of Dol Amroth, Éowyn sat as the Lady of Ithilien (Faramir as Steward held the position of Council Moderator and so could not compromise his impartiality), Legolas sat for the Elves of Ithilien, and numerous other lords and ladies for each of the regions of Gondor and Arnor. Representation from Rohan was also present on this occasion; namely King Éomer, Queen Lothíriel and Gimli, Lord of the Glittering Caves. All told there were one hundred and twelve seated around the council table beneath the gleaming arc of the Dome of the Sun.

The ring of Barahir's emerald eyes winked up at Aragorn from his hand where it rested on the polished tabletop. The twin snakes almost seemed to be laughing at his mounting boredom. Ah, how his hand itched to grasp Andúril, the sword of his ancestors. How aive he had felt in those days of the Fellowship, how vital! Aragorn remained tall and hale at well over a century old, his grey eyes as clear as they had ever been. There were streaks of silver in his hair now beneath the crown of Gondor, and furrows had begun to edge their way into the lines of his brow. Cloaked in black and red with the white tree upon his breast Aragorn still cut an impressive figure at the head of the table.

Glancing at Arwen where she sat at his right, Aragorn thought his wife had worn the years better than himself. The slight softness beneath her midnight blue gown bespoke of the bearing of their four beloved children, each one as strong and healthy as the last. Arwen may have renounced her immortality, but in many ways she retained evidence that she had been born a daughter of the Eldar. Her voice still rang with the music of silver bells, and that secret smile lingered in the corner of her mouth. If age and mortality had changed the queen, Aragorn found those changes all the more endearing for having seen those years at her side.

Aragorn did not begrudge aging for its own sake, nor for the loss of his prime as a warrior. He mourned only for the reminder it served that one day this life he and Arwen had built together would end. It seemed a waste to spend even a minute of that precious time left to them listening to speeches and dealing with formalities. If it were in Aragorn's power he would have stolen away Arwen and their children for a day out riding by the River Anduin together. Then his gaze fell once more upon his rough, scarred hands and he remembered how hard-won this kingly boredom had been. Marshalling his powers of self-discipline Aragorn tried to re-focus. Briefly he sparred a wistful thought for memories of the Dúnedain and their fireside councils.

"The Great Council of Gondor, High King Aragorn Elessar and High Queen Arwen Undomíel recognize the delegation from Rohan, and bid welcome to King Éomer, Lord of the Mark and Queen Lothíriel. The kinship and allegiance between the realms of Gondor and Rohan..."

Aragorn did his noble best not to give Faramir a 'look' as the Steward rattled off a detailed monologue to the council. Sometimes it seemed as though the Prince of Ithilien relished his duties as Council Moderator a bit too much. Aragorn and Faramir had built a strong foundation together as King and Steward over the years. To say that Faramir was above using that mutual respect to enjoy a little fun at Aragorn's expense from time to time would taste of a lie though. The most fundamental difference between the two men was that Faramir was a scholar at heart, while Aragorn would remain a ranger in his bones till the end of his days.

On Aragorn's right, Arwen saw her husband's eyes twitch restlessly and smiled inside. Even after nearly thirty years as King, Aragorn still struggled to keep the restless soul of a Dúnedain in check. It both heartened and sobered Arwen to think of how similar Aragorn and Eldarion were. When Eldarion came of age he would be required to join in on meetings of the Great Council, and would no doubt find them just as enthralling as his father. So many years had passed since Arwen had first glimpsed her eldest child in a vision of Foresight. Quietly she thanked the Valar yet again that she had turned her horse back to Rivendell that fateful day. If not for that vision, much might have been different.

For Arwen those first years in Gondor had been filled with both joy and uncertainty. It is not everyday that one sees all their dreams come true. Arwen had been born and reared an Elf though, and that meant it had taken some settling in to grow accustomed to her new life. The customs of mortals were not entirely alien to a daughter of Elrond Half-Elven, but they were still unfamiliar all the same, as were the expected roles of a noblewoman. For many years the women of Minas Tirith had been reverent of her almost to the point of unease. Finding her way into the social circles of her new peers had been challenging; there were very few comfortable enough in her presence to regard her as a friend.

An unlikely ally to the new queen of Gondor had been the Lady Éowyn. Proud and fiercely indomitable in her own right, Éowyn alone had always met Arwen's gaze head-on as an equal. Oddly enough when the former Shieldmaiden's unrequited admiration for Aragorn came to light it had only served to reinforce the growing comraderie between the two women. After all, how could Arwen ever dislike anyone who thought so highly of Aragorn? Once that understanding had been reached their friendship had flourished like the blooms in Éowyn's garden in Ithilien. The two of them were also united in their experiences as strangers in Gondor, now married to prominent lords of the realm. Over time the other noblewomen had grown accustomed to their queen's otherworldly beauty, but Arwen still counted Éowyn as her first and greatest friend in Gondor.

Once Faramir had finished his lengthy introduction of their oldest allies and Éomer had accepted the official welcome, the true purpose of the council could at last begin. This was not a routine meeting for the Great Council, and it was after great deliberation that Aragorn had invited the leadership of the Riddermark. As glad as Aragorn was to see so many familiar faces around the council table, there was an air of unease all around. Keenly did everyone remember the days of Sauron and of war. It seemed the shadow of Mordor lingered on even as the White Tree grew tall and strong. After a moment to let the air settle Aragorn spoke.

"Friends, as you all know our efforts to bring an end to conflict from the East have been long and often fruitless. For years peace in the east has remained elusive. Old allegiances are hard forgotten, and even harder still to forget are old grudges. Our scouts report that the Easterlings and Haradrim continue to mass west of the Sea of Rhûn, growing in number every day. The treaty we proposed this time last year was not ratified, and so we find ourselves yet again brought back to the same question. Do we continue to rely on negotiation, or do we turn to strength of arms?"

A murmur traveled down the table like a ripple. The lords of Gondor had debated long and hard at their last meeting over this very topic. The men of Rhûn and Harad had been threatening Gondor's eastern borders nearly without respite since the fall of Sauron. The men of the West, though victorious at the Black Gate were decimated in number. It had taken nearly a decade to even begin the rebuilding of Gondor's armies. Riding out in strength to deal with their bitter neighbours had not been a viable option until now. The decision to wage a military campaign was never a thing to be taken lightly, not when memories of the War of the Ring were still so near. Nearly every man, woman and child in Gondor could name at least three close relations whom had perished in the War of the Ring.

"Why was the treaty not ratified? We were assured that Gondor's greatest minds were set to its drafting." Queen Lothíriel asked, frowning. Éomer's wife was also Faramir's cousin, the daughter of the late Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. The Queen of Rohan was a stately woman with a wealth of smooth grey-brown hair and a dimpled chin which their son Elfwine had inherited.

"We would have asked the official courier who carried the document, but he returned from Haradwaith with his head in his saddlebag." Elphir answered his sister, prompting general outrage from the rest of the council.

Aragorn held up a hand to request order, which he immediately received. "We were not so surprised as might be thought, Lady Lothíriel. The Haradrim are a grim people, fierce and proud in despair. And despair they do. They and the Easterlings were promised a great deal from Sauron, namely the lands of Rohan and the Mark, as well as holdings in northern Gondor. These offers were of course predicated on our utter defeat. Naturally we cannot and will not match Sauron's promises as we sue for peace."

Dark muttering from the delegation from Rohan arose as Aragorn spoke. Éomer lifted his chin defiantly, displaying his neatly trimmed beard. The King of Rohan cut a splendid figure in a tunic of autumn brown edged in gold braiding to match the crown upon his head. Éomer was not of the blood of old Númenor though, and so appeared several years older than Aragorn and even Faramir now. There was some resemblance to the late King Théoden in Éomer, something that had taken the passing of years to make visible where it had not been before.

"If the Easterlings and men of Harad wish to take the Mark, they may do so from our stiff and lifeless corpses. I will hear no talk of yielding Rohan's lands to the servants of evil."

"The same from me and my folk." Gimli declared from his seat beside Legolas. Properly as Lord of the Glittering Caves he ought to have been seated with Éomer and Lothíriel. No one had any mind to separate the two friends reunited though. "Those ruffians are lucky we didn't drive them straight into the sea along with their Orc friends after Sauron fell."

Éowyn gave Éomer a sharp look across the table. "I'm sure your terms would be quite agreeable to the men of the East, brother. Surely there is still hope for avoiding open war yet? If the Easterlings and Haradrim truly had the strength to wrest land from us then they would have done so by now. There must be weakness somewhere that we can use for negotiations."

"I think we've heard exactly what they think of our negotiations." Gimli muttered into his magnificent red beard. A number of bright gemstones glittered on his fingers and from his belt.

"I hoped for the same, and still do, Lady Éowyn." Aragorn called for a page who brought a map forward. "New reports have changed the situation somewhat I fear." Spreading the map on the table he traced the distance between Minas Tirith and the Sea of Rhûn. "Our latest reports place Easterlings here, at the plains of Dagorlad. They left us this."

A second page came forth, carrying a long wrapped pole. The youth unfurled what was revealed to be a blood red banner emblazoned with a four-pointed yellow star; the standard of the Easterlings.

"What is the meaning of this?!" Elphir demanded, sitting bolt upright in his chair.

"An annexation." Legolas leaned forward, fixated on the worn standard.

"Of the Dead Marshes?" A lord from a southern Gondorian territory sounded incredulous. "What is the sense of that? There is nothing there of any import, only leagues upon leagues of swamp and rot."

Arwen spoke, both reproachful and grave. "The 'rot' you refer to includes the bodies of many valiant heroes of the Last Alliance, some of whom have kin here at this table. Never should their final resting place be disregarded as unimportant."

"There is also the principle of the gesture." Aragorn followed Arwen with a somber nod. "If we turn a blind eye to this encroachment, we risk not only appearing weak and pliant, but we also place the northeastern regions of Gondor at risk of further harassment. To this council I ask you now; how will Gondor answer this open threat?"

"There can be only one answer to such insult." Gimli stood up. No weapons were permitted in the Dome of the Sun, but the dwarf lord did not need his axe to bristle ferociously. "I say we remind them just who won the War of the Ring!"

Éomer likewise stood, his verdant green cloak falling about him like a mantle of summer hills. "Long have Gondor and Rohan stood fast as allies. Dagorlad and the Dead Marshes are not Rohirric lands, but I stand both for honour and the Oath of Eorl. Lord Aragorn, if you decide to ride out against the East then Rohan will ride with you." Lothíriel's lips pressed into a thin line at her husband's declaration, her expression unreadable.

"My friends, you honour me, and the bonds of our nations." Aragorn smiled around the table. "The decision to ride out to war is larger than any one man. "Captain Bergil."

"My king." Bergil, Captain of Gondor snapped to attention where he stood guard behind Aragorn's chair. To him would fall the duty of training Eldarion as the next Captain of Gondor's armies. Bergil was a broad, barrel-chested man with heavy black sideburns and a sense of duty a mile wide.

"Do you deem Gondor's armies ready for an open conflict such as this? Do we have enough men to push back the Easterlings and Haradrim without leaving Gondor undefended?"

Bergil gave a nod of affirmation. "My lord, we can send five thousand able soldiers on this campaign without compromising either the City Guard or our border watch. The army of Gondor stands ready to obey your command."

And now it came to the part that Aragorn loved least about being a king. It was a small matter to rush headlong into danger yourself; to place your own life and limbs in harms way for the sake of those you loved. Making that decision on behalf of thousands of others still did not feel quite right even after thirty years of ruling. How many lives might be lost on such a campaign? How many could be lost if the Easterlings and Haradrim were left unchecked, unchallenged?

He looked to Arwen. This decision would effect both of them, as well as their children. In the end that was all they wished for; a better world for their son and daughters. Arwen looked back at him with those infinitely wise, beautiful eyes of hers. Some joked that the king and queen could speak to each other without words. Little did they know how right they were. Arwen's brows twitched together imperceptibly. Then her chin dipped in a gesture so tiny no one else could possibly see. Aragorn squared his shoulders and spoke aloud to all assembled.

"Gather all those who would join us in this campaign on the Fields of Pelennor. In five days' time, we ride for the Sea of Rhûn."


	4. Leave-Taking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The armies of Gondor and Rohan prepare to leave Minas Tirith for the Sea of Rhûn. Families say their goodbyes, and old childhood friends are reunited.

* * *

 

The sun rose pale as a pearl over the White City, casting its towers and parapets in an opalescent glow. A chill spring breeze swept over the mountains and down into the city where it caught the black and white banners high. Eldarion looked to the Tower of Ecthelion, glimmering tall and smooth against the sky. The wind whispered in his ears and brushed strands of his glossy dark hair across his brow. Dawn was the time of day Eldarion loved the best. To him, the White City never looked more beautiful than at first light.

He and the other lords and ladies of Gondor were gathered before the gates of Minas Tirith. Soon those gates would open, sending them out into the world beyond. The armies of Gondor and of Rohan waited on the Fields of Pelennor for their kings. It would be at five days' ride if not more to reach the inland Sea of Rhûn. This was not only the first time that the Men of the West had ridden out in force in more than a decade; it was also Eldarion's first true military campaign. The same was also true for both Elboron and Elfwine, prince of Rohan.

Eldarion felt a confusing swirl of emotions coursing through him as he watched his father embrace each of his sisters. For the most part he was excited, keenly aware that as Captain of Gondor one day he would be expected to not just participate in but lead campaigns such as this. He was also somewhat nervous, as was to be reasonably expected. A third, smaller and less prominent voice whispered words of quiet doubt in the prince's ear. Would he be able to live up to his father's reputation? Would the soldiers of Gondor ever one day look to him with such awe and admiration? Eldarion knew this first impression on the field would be everything moving forward. That concerned him almost more than the thought all warriors must learn to live with; the possibility of falling in battle.

With a final squeeze Aragorn finally prised Almárëa out of his arms. The youngest princess of Gondor only reluctantly let go of her father before asking him for the hundredth time that morning "You promise you'll be home again before Midsummer, Father?"

"Yes Almárëa, I promise. Before sunset on the longest day I will be back in Minas Tirith with you, your sisters and your mother. And so will Eldarion."

Eruthiawen and Túrien exchanged a sideways glance beside Arwen. They were both close enough to womanhood to know that a soldier's promise must always be taken with a dose of caution. The king was a legendary swordsman though, and they were all perhaps less concerned for Aragorn as they were for Eldarion. Even Túrien deigned to give her brother a hug; a rare occasion.

"Be careful out there, Eldarion." Túrien said somberly. Then the usual spark of mischief returned to her midnight blue eyes. "You would rob all the young women of Gondor of a national treasure if you managed to damage that pretty face of yours in a fight."

Eldarion flushed but returned his middle sister's teasing squeeze. Túrien was lithe as a willow and nimble as quicksilver in his arms. Quick as a flash she was already dancing away beyond reach.

"Never mind marring your appearance, just be sure to return as well and whole as you left us." Eruthiawen's embrace was longer, more comfortable and at ease than Túrien's. If she were worried for Aragorn and Eldarion, her calm smile kept such concerns well hidden. "I have no doubt that you are more than ready for this. Still I will ask the Valar to keep an eye out for you, Little Brother."

It was something of a joke between Eldarion and Eruthiawen, one that they had carried on since they were adolescents. Eruthiawen had for a brief space of time been taller than Eldarion, owing to the propensity of maidens to sprout before youths. Gimli had jokingly remarked at the time that between her height and her maturity it would be all too easy to believe Eruthiawen was Eldarion's elder. Even after Eldarion caught up to and surpassed Eruthiawen, she still continued to affectionately refer to him as her 'Little Brother'.

"As will I."

Arwen wore the silver crown of the Queen of Gondor to appear out in the city that morning. Sometimes it was almost easy to forget that their 'Adar' and 'Naneth' belonged to a whole nation, and not just their family. Then Arwen enfolded Eldarion to her heart and he smelt her familiar perfume of night air and lavender. Few people knew that Arwen still walked in the gardens by moonlight, finding reverie as she once had as a daughter of the Eldar. There were many elements of the Queen that nobody saw, facets of her which remained private for only her loved ones to see. The scent of moonlight in his mother's hair was a wonderful reminder of that.

"Be safe _, ion-nin_  (my son)." Arwen whispered into Eldarion's ear. "Stay close to your father, and to the others. Your time will come. For now, remember that you are still very young, and have many years ahead in which to learn and prove yourself."

Eldarion would have been surprised by the way in which his mother always seemed to know his mind, if he were not already so used to it. Nodding, he bowed his head to receive Arwen's kiss on his brow.

"Do not worry Naneth, I will be careful."

Arwen held his face between her long, cool hands for a moment longer before granting him a slight smile. Worry was more apparent in Arwen's gaze than it had been in Eruthiawen's. Then she turned to Aragorn.

"I would say the same to you, meleth-nin ( _my love_ ). Only rather than urging you to remember your youth, I would urge you to remember your strengths. If the years have made you less fast on your feet and less nimble, they have also made you wiser and more cunning." Arwen chucked Aragorn's chin lovingly. "Try not to let Elrohir and Elladan's teasing from our last visit make you rash."

Aragorn raised an eyebrow, capturing Arwen's hand in his and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Since when have I ever been rash?" He asked, very much bringing Túrien to mind in his expression.

"Since always, Estel." Then Arwen leaned in close and murmured something in Aragorn's ear so quietly that even their children could not hear it. Aragorn did not speak at first, but kissed his wife tenderly before stepping away from her.

"I will." He said, his voice as fervent as if he were taking a sacred oath.

Eldarion looked around the city square to where other such partings were taking place. Mothers, sons, uncles, nephews, fathers, sisters, all were gathered to see their soldiers off to battle. He caught sight of Elboron standing at the foot of the statue of a Gondorian horseman with Faramir and Éowyn. Their goodbyes were even harder still than Eldarion's, no doubt. Faramir as Steward of Gondor could not leave the city by law so long as the king was absent. Everyone this side of the Misty Mountains knew of the Lady Éowyn's exploits in battle during the War of the Ring, but the White Lady of Ithilien was likewise retired from combat. That left Elboron to ride away to Rhûn without the watchful presence of either his mother or his father at his side.

Faramir released Elboron from a tight hug just in time for Éowyn to shower her son with yet another wave of advice.

"Be sure you clean your sword after every skirmish, no matter how small it may seem. Blood will eat away at the blade as sure as sunrise, and dirty your sheath as well." Éowyn was saying.

"Yes Mother, I will remember." Elboron said with the slightly exhausted air of someone who has been given a long list of other things to do and not do.

"And above all, stay close to Aragorn, Éomer, Legolas and Gimli." Faramir said. "They have promised your mother and I to watch over you in our stead, as they watch over Eldarion and Elfwine."

Éowyn stepped in and wrapped Elboron in one more embrace, her long white cloak enveloping them both. The dawning hours seemed to suit Éowyn as well; she shone pale and crisp like the blossoms on the White Tree in the courtyard high above. White gold was in her hair, never fading to silver but turning straight to snow like the first frosts of winter.

"Your father and I are so proud of you, Elboron. I know I have told you this before, but you truly are the best of both of us." She said. "Be brave, and be safe."

It took some time before Faramir and Éowyn both were ready to relinquish Elboron. Eventually though they broke apart and approached the royal family. The three of them bowed in deference to Aragorn and Arwen before everyone greeted one another as old friends. They were soon joined by Éomer and Lothíriel, as well as their son Elfwine. The prince of Rohan was sporting the beginnings of what promised to be a rather impressive honey colored beard to match his father's. Elfwine's boiled leather armor already had a few nicks and scratches on it, but on the whole looked quite as new as Eldarion and Elboron's shining plate mail.

While their parents conversed, the noble children of Gondor and Rohan likewise gathered a short distance away in the square. It had been some time since they had all seen one another together, and they eyed one another curiously. Túrien and Almárëa had changed a great deal since their last visit to Rohan, and Elfwine had likewise filled out nicely toward full maturity.

"I hear you recently were named a Marshal of the Mark, Elfwine. A great honor at your age to be sure." Túrien commented, eyeing the heavy axe whose red leather handle jutted up above his shoulder. "Although I daresay your weapons look almost as green as you."

Elfwine just shrugged and smiled, his dark green eyes twinkling proudly. He was a striking young man, and many were already calling him 'Elfwine the Fair' for his resemblance to his maternal grand-sire, Prince Imrahil.

"Third Marshal, like my father before me." Elfwine said. Eldarion could tell he was trying hard not to boast. "I may not have been in the saddle as long as some, but I hope I have enough heart to fill the difference. I hear you and Almárëa are becoming horsewomen the likes of which could make a Shieldmaiden of Rohan proud."

"Túrien rides like the wind!" Almárëa exclaimed, her long brown curls bouncing in her excitement. "The filly your father gifted us is grown now, and surely must run as fast as Shadowfax ever could. Riding her feels like flying!"

"That may be something of an overstatement, Almárëa." Eldarion commented dryly. "Shadowfax was one of the Mearas, the Lord of all Horses. No horse, not even Brego or Arod could match him."

Elboron pointed toward the gates where their horses waited patiently beyond the throng. "I would take Baneth over a hundred Shadowfaxes any day. Her loyalty and love are beyond measure. "

"Loyalty is a virtue that I think I too would prefer in a horse over speed." Eruthiawen said. The rising sun was catching sparks of fiery red in her hair where it fell in shining waves down the front of her pale yellow gown. "Especially in battle, when fear might make the hearts of both men and beasts shudder."

"Indeed, my lady, just so. No doubt your horse Dior must love you greatly, the way he follows you even after you dismount." Elboron smiled at Eruthiawen.

"Have you seen Gimli?" Almárëa asked, craning her neck trying to see above the crowd in the square. "He promised me a present before he left today."

Túrien scoffed, but pointed the way all the same. "Almárëa, you are liable to grow spoiled from all the gifts you seem to keep receiving. I saw Gimli with Legolas over by the horses, just there. You will have to hurry though, the army leaves soon I think."

Hiking up her rosebud red skirts, Almárëa went dashing away. Sometimes soldiers and their loved ones saw her coming and stepped aside for the little princess. For those that did not see, Almárëa slid around them with speed and balance most impressive even for a young slip of a girl like her. It was a good thing that she ran; less than a minute later the clear ringing of silver trumpets filled the square. The time had come to depart the White City.

Climbing into the saddle on Greyhame's back was somewhat more difficult than usual in armor. With some effort Eldarion pulled himself up and settled in for what was sure to be a long ride. He had no idea how his father managed to look so at ease in his own armor with the heavy royal mantle fluttering behind him. He wondered if the Rohirrim weren't slightly more practical with their leather armor for riding. Certainly Elfwine looked as comfortable as could be in the saddle alongside Éomer. Then Elboron sidled his horse up to Eldarion and they shared a knowing grimace. At least they could be uncomfortable on the long ride together.

With their banners flying high the kings and princes of Rohan and Gondor rode out through the gates of Minas Tirith. The soldiers on the Fields of Pelennor greeted their lords with a rousing cheer. Eight thousand in all fell into a long column behind the kings. They unfurled like a steel and leather ribbon across the plains and away toward the east.


	5. Into the East

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eldarion's elvish blood makes itself known on the journey into Rhûn. Thankfully Legolas is there to relate.  
> Before the battle joins, old war heroes both inspire and offer reassurance to the next generation about to follow in their footsteps.

* * *

 

The ride to Rhûn was long and tedious, but not so bad as Eldarion has initially feared. Once they were out of sight of Minas Tirith the army had begun to relax into what his father had termed a 'traveling mood'. Up and down the columns of soldiers songs occasionally broke out, some more tasteful than others. There were also Elboron and Elfwine to talk with on the long ride, and the three youths swapped dozens of stories involving their own daily adventures and other more noteworthy escapades. Elfwine perhaps was not quite as close to Eldarion and Elboron as they were to each other, him living almost three day's ride away in Rohan. It did not take long though for the newly minted Third Marshal to remember his place in the friendship the three of them had cultivated as boys.

Almost as enjoyable as spending time with his friends for Eldarion was spending time with his father. In Minas Tirith, Aragorn was the High King and there always seemed to be a hundred and one demands on his time. Even in the evenings when the royal family gathered together before the hearth there was always the danger that someone might 'drop in quickly' for a consultation. Out here on the road, Aragorn's only concern was the army, and Eldarion was in the army. When he was not laughing and chatting with Elboron and Elfwine, Eldarion rode at the head of the Gondorion army beside Aragorn. It was rare and precious time at least somewhat alone with his father that Eldarion did not underestimate the value of.

As they rode east the land around them turned grey and sour. On the eve of the second day they had passed the void in the mountains where the Black Gates had once stood. Aragorn, Éomer, Legolas and Gimli had ridden out beyond the army a short ways to look down upon the site from a barren hilltop. Eldarion and Elfwine had watched their fathers from afar, both wondering just what returning to this place meant to them. The Battle of the Black Gates had been where Sauron fell and the War of the Ring won. It was still a grim, melancholy place though, a toothless mouth gaping open on the wound that was Mordor.

"My father once told me that he very nearly lost everything in the War of the Ring." Elfwine had said, gazing across the field at the four old veterans. His green cloak whipped in the wind, mingling with the dark gold tangles of his hair. "My grandparents, his cousin, his uncle, and very nearly my aunt as well, all either dead or gravely wounded. I cannot imagine what it would be like, to stand on the brink of all darkness with almost nothing left to lose but your own life."

"Neither can I." Eldarion replied. "We are very lucky, you and I, that we live in the times that we do. Even if we are still riding out to war."

Elfwine grinned then, shifting on his horse Garulf so that his axe stuck up higher over his shoulder. "That I do not lament. We are young men, and the sons of warriors. What would we do if not follow in our fathers' footsteps?"

"Perhaps tread our own footsteps along paths yet undiscovered?" Elboron sidled up his yellow mare alongside Eldarion and Elfwine.

"Spoken like a son of the great pacifist himself." Elfwine teased not unkindly. "What is it that your father once said? ' _I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend_.'?"

Elboron raised a golden eyebrow at Elfwine, the wind catching soft curls and tossing them onto his brow. "You must have taken his words to heart at least somewhat to have committed them to memory so exactly."

"Aha, he has you there, Elfwine!" Eldarion laughed aloud. "Perhaps there is more of the blood of gentle Dol Amroth in you than meets the eye."

"I think plenty of that bloodline already meets the eye, doesn't it, ' _Elfwine the Fair'_?" Elboron winked, referring to Elfwine's rapidly spreading nickname.

"Pah, Elboron! You're just jealous that I have more feminine attention at home in Edoras than I can chivalrously manage most days, whilst you have elvish neighbors to distract the eyes of the women of Ithilien."

Their bantering continued on even after Aragorn, Éomer, Legolas and Gimli had rejoined the army. Listening to their sons jest with one another, Aragorn and Éomer exchanged a look that spoke volumes. They both truly savored the lighthearted, carefree manner with which their children embraced life. It was a privilege that had been denied to both of them in their own youths. Still the kings of Gondor and of Rohan knew what they were likely riding into; Eldarion, Elfwine and Elboron did not. Aragorn's heart was sore at the thought of his son's smile being dimmed by bloodshed and battle. It was a coming of age that he could not deny the Prince of Gondor though, just as Éomer could not deny Elfwine his first true battle as a Marshal of the Riddermark.

On the morning of the fourth day there was a somewhat less comfortable feeling in the air as the army broke camp. The Sea of Rhûn was not far; Eldarion had seen it on the maps that the kings had been pouring over the night before. According to the Rohirrim scouts Éomer had sent out, the Haradrim and Easterlings were camped on the western shores of the inland sea. At last report they numbered close to seven thousand. With the combined forces of Gondor and Rohan totalling at nearly nine thousand, Eldarion supposed he ought to feel more at ease than he did. The odds were with them, but this was a strange, grim land and he did not feel any welcome here. Even the skies were grey, threatening of a mid-spring rain. The Ash Mountains of Mordor jutted up like a broken lower jaw on the southern horizon. There was a damp, marshy smell in the air, and strange birds flew overhead. The ground however was not wet, but mostly hard-packed, cold clay. Low bushes grew here and there, and the occasional ground squirrel darted this way and that as the army approached.

Eldarion tried hard not to shudder and drew his cloak across his chest. This land was not particularly dreadful, but there was something hard and bitter in the very earth here that chilled his heart. Glancing sideways at Elboron and Elfwine and the other men, Eldarion was surprised to see that none of them were similarly unsettled. Elfwine clucked at Garulf, drawing closer behind his father's great charger, and Elboron no longer sang as he had done the day before. Still they all seemed wary if not off-put.

Soft hooves on Eldarion's left caught his attention. He turned on Greyhame's back to meet Legolas's clear blue gaze. The elf sat tall and calm astride Arod, the horse's milk-white coat seeming to gleam in the low light. Legolas smiled sympathetically at Eldarion, and the prince knew then that Legolas understood what he was feeling.

"You have your mother's heart, Eldarion." Legolas spoke in a low voice, quiet enough that even Elboron riding next to Eldarion did not turn. "An elvish heart within a mortal breast. People are shaped by the land they call home, and this is an unhappy country." The Mirkwood elf shifted ever so slightly. If Gimli behind him was overhearing their conversation he made no sign. "I too feel the sorrow here. The shadow of Sauron has been upon this place for a very long time, and such a shadow lingers on even after the daylight breaks."

"Will Rhûn ever come to know the light?" Eldarion asked. He did not doubt that the sun shone here as it did anywhere else in Middle-Earth. There was a very large difference between sunlight and a true dawn though.

Legolas did not answer. Instead he lifted his fair face to the air and closed his eyes. In the distance over the hoof beats of the army Eldarion heard a bird trill. Then Legolas smiled and looked back to Eldarion.

"Perhaps, with time. Fortify your spirit, Aragornion. Even in dark places light can be found. My own heart tells me that hate cannot fester forever in the hearts of those who dwell here. Now that its source is extinguished, the darkness will recede with each passing generation."

"Very optimistic of you." Gimli commented from behind Legolas. So the dwarf had been listening in after all. "There are still enemies enough here for my axe I think."

"And for my bow." Legolas replied. "These are not orcs though, and I perhaps go into this battle with less relish than I might once have."

"Hmph." Was Gimli's only answer. They all lapsed into silence as they rode on.

Eldarion was just about to try to engage Elboron once again in conversation when Aragorn abruptly stopped his horse at the front of the army. The sky was grey and close, making the world feel only as wide as the eye could see. They stood atop the edge of a long downgrade, littered with sharp grey rocks and swat plants. In the distance they could see a plane of water as vast and flat as a silver mirror; the Sea of Rhûn.

The sea was massive, stretching on so far into the distance that Eldarion could almost believe it was a true sea. Only by squinting could he just barely make out a far shoreline at the eastern horizon. An island sat in the middle of the inland sea, almost large enough to encompass all of Ithilien. It was not the sea nor the island that really caught Eldarion's attention. It was the army encamped on its western bank.

"And so the Men of the East await us." Elphir, son of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth commented. "They might have picked higher ground to camp on though; we could run right over them from here."

Aragorn did not answer. He and Legolas exchanged a glance before the king ran his keen grey eyes over the landscape. The only way down onto the plains between here and the Sea of Rhûn was by what looked to be a fairly narrow channel in the hillside. Their forces would be funneled, and unable to charge as one complete unit. It was clever really; the Easterlings and Haradrim may have the low ground, normally undesirable territory. The natural geography of the land ensured that any advantage the Men of the West might have taken from their position was completely erased.

"Éomer." Aragorn spoke. "The spears of the Rohirrim are longer, and could no doubt be of the most benefit at the vanguard. I do not ask this lightly of you, but will you and your people lead the way down toward the sea?"

The King of Rohan nodded, his mouth a somber line over his rapidly greying beard. Turning his horse about to face his to his standard bearer, Éomer gave the order.

"Sound the charge. Haleth, you'll follow the king's banner. Elfwine, bring your company in at the rear before the forces of Gondor."

"We will be right at your back. Ride like the wind."

Aragorn clapped Éomer on the shoulder, giving the weathered leather armor a squeeze. Éomer did likewise and the two kings broke apart to order their own troops. Elfwine gave Elboron and Eldarion an exhilarated smile before taking his place at the head of his company. The men of the Third seemed perfectly happy with their young Marshal, and Eldarion wondered what it might feel like to have his own command someday.

"Eldarion, Elboron, with me."

Aragorn called over the two of them. Bringing Baneth and Greyhame up alongside Aragorn's black stallion, they settled in between the king and Legolas and Gimli on Arod.

A horn blew from the Sea of Rhûn, eerie and oddly sweet. If there was a sound Eldarion could have ascribed to this land, it would have been that. It was echoed discordantly a few moments later by another horn, this one long and punctuated by several short barks. The war horns of Rhûn and Harad sent a chill down Eldarion's back. It was both a defiant song and the cry of a wounded beast wrapped together in one. Then Eldarion saw them.

"Mûmakil." He breathed, recognizing the towering behemoths of Harad.

They stood in a line of at least twenty, the pounding of their heavy feet shaking the ground all the way from the seashore. The dying light of the day cast their long shadows along the ground, over-reaching the spears of the Easterlings at the forefront of the eastern army. Eldarion's grip on his sword's hilt within its sheath tightened.

Then the horn of Rohan sounded out, true and proud as a sunrise. At Aragorn's word the horn of Gondor was added to its ally, and together the two sang out in an equal and opposite chorus against the horns of Rhûn and Harad. Their sound buoyed Eldarion and lifted his spirit. A sense of pride in his people and these soldiers warmed him from the inside out. The banner of Gondor fluttered overhead; seven white stars rampant on a field of black sable crowning one white tree. If all the men behind him could fight for Gondor, so could he.

"When the battle is joined, I want the two of you to stay within eye-sight of me." Aragorn murmured to Eldarion and Elboron. "Fight back-to-back if it helps to keep your flanks defended. If all else fails, call out and I will come to your aid. I will always come at your call, so long as there is breath in my body."

"I know, Adar." Eldarion said. His father's seriousness made the reality of the moment even more austere than the ringing of the horns.

Aragorn reached out then for Eldarion's hand. Taking it, Eldarion returned the gentle pressure on his fingers before letting go. Then the horn of Rohan sounded a charge and Aragorn drew his sword Andúril.

"For Gondor, and for Rohan!"

And then they were flying down toward the land-locked sea, there to meet the warriors of the east who awaited them with beast and blade and bow.


	6. To Watch Over You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eldarion, Elboron and Elfwine are swept up in the chaos of their first true battle. When one of them takes an injury, his fate falls quite literally into the hands of his un-tested friends.

* * *

 

The impact was bone-jarring. Using all the power and agility bred into his bloodline, Greyhame just barely managed to clear the spears of the Easterlings. That did not mean Eldarion's teeth didn't rattle when they slammed to a halt on the other side. With their thorny shields and tight ranks the Easterlings did not permit the enemy charge to break far into their ranks. The men of the west slammed into the men of the east and were halted in an instant.

Spears were everywhere, poking up like brambles in a briar patch. Greyhame almost reared, but Eldarion's knees clamping down on his sides kept the horse focused. Someone tried to grab at his leg on his left side. Reacting with both purpose and panic, Eldarion twisted around in the saddle and stabbed downward with his sword. Something resisted briefly before giving way. The hand on his ankle dropped, and then he saw blood on the end of his blade. It was the first time that Eldarion had ever killed another human.

There was no time to dwell on his grisly milestone though. It felt like every Easterling that was cut down, another three stood ready to take his place. Greyhame had nowhere to manoeuvre in the press, and Eldarion was sincerely grateful for the armor that guarded his faithful mount's chest and neck. His own greaves similarly protected his shins and calves from being mauled by the knives of the Easterlings.

Recalling his father's words before the battle, Eldarion managed to tear his focus from the melee long enough to look up and around. He was almost surprised to realize that he was more surrounded by Gondorian and Rohan cavalry than by Easterlings. The battle had felt so intense. It was to the prince's chagrin that he realized he was actually quite well protected on his flanks by both Aragorn and Bergil, Captain of Gondor. If this was what 'safe' felt like in the midst of battle, Eldarion shuddered to imagine what a dire situation would feel like.

A sound like thunder stole Eldarion's concentration and that of many of the other soldiers as well. It took a moment to realize that the sound was not thunder after all. Vast shapes blotted out the pale easterly sun, and a trumpeting war cry shook the very air itself.

"Eldarion, follow me!"

Reins clenched in a white-knuckled grasp, Eldarion pulled up Greyhame's head and plunged through the melee after his father. Aragorn led the way beyond the path of the charging Mûmakil, weaving through gaps in the Easterlings. Andúril flashed as he rode, and Aragorn beheaded at least two Easterlings in passing. Eldarion marveled that his father's ability to not only steer around the legs of the Mûmakil but also fight enemies on the ground at the same time. It was taking all of his nerve just to keep Greyhame steady. The horse's eyes rolled in fright at the enormous behemoths overhead. One gigantic foot slammed down so close behind Eldarion that his heart skipped a beat.

"Shoot for the eyes, kill the drivers!

Eldarion recognized Éomer's booming voice, ringing out clear even through the din of the battlefield. Several Rohirrim pulled up their horses long enough to aim short bows and through spears. A handful found their mark, and the Mûmak bellowed. Such tiny missiles compared to such a large beast, Eldarion wondered if the creature was more annoyed than truly hurt.

A familiar cream yellow horse flickered into view on the other side of the Mûmak's tree-trunk thick legs. Eldarion had to look away to slash at an Easterling whose spear just about took his head off. Looking back, he realized that Baneth had come to a standstill beneath Elboron. The Mûmak between them passed in search of more Rohirrim to rampage and Eldarion realized why. Unlike Eldarion when the battle was first joined, Elboron truly was hemmed in on all sides by the wicked spears of the Easterlings.

"Elboron!"

Eldarion urged Greyhame forward, the way fairly clear thanks to the passage of the Mûmakil. Elboron swung his sword in wide swaths on either side of himself, trying frantically to create some space. The Easterlings pressed their advantage, like spiders surrounding a failing moth.

It was not Eldarion who came to Elboron's aide first, but Elfwine. With a throaty yell the prince of Rohan came thundering seemingly out of nowhere to crash against the backs of the Easterlings. His battle-axe cutting through the air with a deadly swish, Elfwine broke the ring which had threatened to crush Elboron. He cut a fine figure, with his battle cry and the horse hair of his helmet flying behind him like a tawny banner. Certainly Elboron must be thinking Elfwine a sight for sore eyes at the moment.

Elfwine's charge was brought to an abrupt halt when one bold Easterling dropped to a knee and braced his spear against the ground. It was a suicidal thing to do, and sure enough the man was trampled moments later by Elfwine's strong young war-horse. The spear however served its purpose even as its owner fell. Elfwine's horse was caught in the shoulder and reared up high and fast with a squeal of pain. The prince of Rohan was thrown hard and fast from his saddle to land heavily out of sight on the ground.

Ignoring the stampeding of another Mûmak behind him and the shouting of men, Eldarion rode as quickly as he could across the battlefield to where Elfwine had fallen. Elboron was already there, having dismounted Baneth and sent her galloping away to safety. Eldarion likewise leapt from Greyhame's back and bade him follow Baneth with a hurried whisper in elvish.

No sooner did his feet hit the ground than two Easterlings rushed him with a cry in their strange tongue. Ducking out of the reach of the first man's spear, Eldarion caught the second on his sword in mid-lunge. Skewering the Easterling was effective, but also left his sword lodged in his enemy's breastplate. With no time to pull it out Eldarion instead drew a small knife from his belt and let the survivor come in close. Feinting at another dodge in one direction, Eldarion at the last minute pivoted and stabbed the Easterling from behind. The dying Easterling head-butted Eldarion from behind, whether intentionally or in his final throes. Either way Eldarion ended up with a split and swelling lip.

With a moment to breathe, Eldarion turned his attention to Elfwine. Elboron was on one knee at the younger man's side, propping Elfwine up in his lap. Elfwine's polished helm lay several yards away on the trampled grass. A small patch of red stained Elfwine's honey-gold hair, and he lay limply as one in a deep sleep.

"Elboron...he's not...?" Eldarion hurried to his friends' sides.

Elboron shook his head, having to be shout to be heard about the din of battle. "No, he lives. He hit his head when he fell though, and will not wake." For his part Elboron looked unhurt, if untidier than Eldarion had ever seen the Steward's son. He doubted he himself looked much prettier with his lip bleeding down his chin.

Eldarion was about to ask about any other injuries when the ground beneath their knees began to tremble more noticeably. Eldarion and Elboron's eyes grew wide as they looked from one another to the battlefield. A lone Mûmak, its face bristling with Rohirric spears and trumpeting furiously, was charging straight toward them.

"Get him up!" Eldarion cried.

Leaving Elfwine's dented helm behind, Eldarion and Elboron hauled the still unconscious youth up between them. He was not light. With an arm slung over each of their shoulders and Elfwine hanging limply between them they dashed to one side. The Mûmak was so close that their knees nearly buckled from the impact of those mighty foot-falls. Just in the nick of time they managed to clear out of the way to (relative) safety.

They were brought up short almost immediately by a group of five more Easterlings. Neither one of them could take on so many foes single-handedly with any confidence. There was only one thing to do. By unspoken agreement Eldarion and Elboron dropped Elfwine in an unceremonious heap between them and drew their swords.

Just as Aragorn had recommended earlier, the two young lords of Gondor fought back to back, all the while standing protectively over their fallen friend. Luck seemed to have deserted them, for they found themselves right in the thick of enemy territory on the field. Everywhere there were Easterlings, and now arrows were flying through the air from the Haradrim on the backs of the Mûmakil. Keeping their foes at bay, not getting shot and not stepping on Elfwine all seemed to be becoming increasingly impossible to do at once.

"Aragorn! I see them, there!"

Eldarion recognized Legolas's voice, ringing out clearly from somewhere oddly high up. Jerking his gaze upward, Eldarion was stunned to see the elf hanging from the underside of a Mûmak by one of the harness cables. A long knife glimmered in Legolas's hand, pointing straight in their direction. There was no time to see what happened next there though; another familiar voice brought his attention snapping around.

"Eldarion, Elboron, here!"

Two horses and their riders came charging straight through the Easterlings all around them like arrows through a fog. Aragorn astride Brego and Éomer on his own charger broke through the enemy line, leading a charge of the men of Gondor and Rohan behind them. The two kings were all the more fierce and terrible in their assault for the worry that was plain on their faces.

Dropping his bloody sword, Eldarion bent to pull Elfwine up. Elboron did likewise, and between the two of them they managed to get Elfwine lifted within arm's reach of Éomer. The king of Rohan caught up his son in a powerful, one-armed grip, pulling Elfwine onto the saddle with him. The last Eldarion and Elboron saw of their friend was Éomer's back riding full out for the sidelines.

Aragorn reached down an arm, pulling first Eldarion and then Elboron up behind him onto Brego. Eldarion marveled at the old horse's strength to not buckle under the weight of three men. Brego's ears flattened against his head, but the faithful creature managed to bear them all away from the fray.

"Father, what about the battle?" Eldarion called over Aragorn's shoulder. "Are we not still needed here?"

Eldarion almost thought he could feel his father chuckle, deep in his chest. "Look around, Eldarion. See what the men of Gondor and Rohan have accomplished as they rallied to rescue their princes."

Turning carefully so as not to break Elboron's hold on his waist and send his friend sliding off Brego's flanks, Eldarion looked back at the field. There were still Easterlings and Mûmakil on the field, but they seemed further away than before. That was when Eldarion realized that the eastern armies were in fact, retreating.

"The enemy lines, they've broken!" Elboron cried out, sounding both disbelieving and relieved.

The two of them exchanged a look that spoke volumes. They were bruised, bloodied, 'an absolutely magnificent mess' by Eruthiawen's standards. Despite all of the above though, they were both alive. Then they remembered Elfwine and their budding jubilation turned swiftly into concern.

When they reached the edge of the field, it was to find a hasty field camp already being erected. They spotted Éomer's horse loosely tethered next to one tent, and it was there that Aragorn guided Brego to. No sooner had Aragorn pulled up on the reins than Eldarion and Elboron were sliding off. Not daring to wait, they hurried to the tent.

Great was their delight and surprise when they were greeted by none other than Elfwine himself at the entrance. The young Third Marshall held a damp and bloodied rag to his forehead, but his usual cheery smile was undimmed.

"Hullo Eldarion, Elboron...what took you so long? Here Father and I were thinking we would have to go back out and check that a Mûmak didn't step on you!"

"Check that  _we_  were alright?" Elboron sounded incredulous. "Not five minutes past Eldarion and I were taking care not to trample on your limp body. Valar Elfwine, you have some gall, and some courage! To charge that thicket of Easterlings alone...I am in your debt."

"Actually, it is I who am in yours." Éomer appeared from inside the tent, a clean rag in hand. He nudged Elfwine and swapped his son for the soiled one before continuing. "The two of you guarded my son on the field in my stead, and for that you have my undying gratitude. Anything you may ever need of me, or of Rohan, you need only ask."

When Éomer lowered his head in a short but respectful bow, both Eldarion and Elboron colored. To have a king easily three times their age bowing to them was a strange situation to be in. They both stammered out something that passed for a gracious acceptance, while at the same time trying to make light of their role in the battle.

"Now Éomer, you're embarrassing the lads!" Gimli appeared beside Aragorn, his axe already clean after the battle. "Leave the fussing and fretting to yer wife. Lothíriel'll have more than a thing or two to say when she gets a look at the bruise ye're bound to have there, Elfwine." The dwarf winked at Elfwine, who grimaced at the thought of his mother learning about the day's 'incident'.

Eldarion turned to his father, who stood observing the happy outcome of what could have been a nasty scare. Aragorn looked like battle suited him well, actually, now that Eldarion had a chance to see his father in the aftermath of one. His silver-shot hair was ruffled yes, and his armor was dirtied. The king of Gondor wore it all well though, as if the grime of combat was a comfortable old favored tunic. Eldarion was suddenly aware of how hot and sweaty he was beneath his own armor. He groaned internally at the thought of having to clean it all.

A Gondorian scout appeared at Aragorn's shoulder, his presence silently requesting the king's attention. Aragorn nodded, granting the narrow-faced fellow permission to deliver his report.

"My lord, the enemy lines have broken, and the Easterlings and Haradrim are withdrawing from the field. They have not however completed a full retreat, but turned and stopped our charge at the outskirts of their encampment on the shores of the Sea of Rhûn. They stationed archers, and appear to have no intentions of quitting the field entirely."

"Thank you Amerel, you may go."

The scout dipped his chin respectfully before turning to go and help with assembling the rest of their camp. Aragorn sighed, not looking the least bit surprised when Legolas appeared as if out of nowhere behind his shoulder. Legolas greeted them all with a relaxed smile, looking as tidy as if he had just returned from a walk in the woods of Ithilien.

"So we all live to fight another day, it seems." Aragorn observed, drumming his fingers on Anduril's hilt.

Gimli snorted. "Did we ever expect those ruddy Easterlings and Haradrim to give up so easily?"

"No, I for one certainly did not." Éomer said. "For now though the day is ours, and I intend to savor the fact that we are all unharmed. For the most part." He added with a gently pointed look sideways at Elfwine.

"Pah, barely a scratch." Elfwine lifted the cloth to show off what promised to be a truly impressive purple and black blotch at his hairline. "I'll be good as new when the sun rises."

"Come, Eldarion." Aragorn waved Eldarion after him. "We have work to do now, you and I. Let us see just how much you learned from my instructions in the Houses of Healing."

"May I be of help, my lord?" Elboron trotted after them, looking almost too fresh and eager to have just fought his first proper battle.

"Of course.

Caring for the wounded was a grim business, one that only made Eldarion and Elboron all the more appreciative of the fact that they had walked away unscathed. The thrill of battle still coursed in their veins even as the day grew old and the torches were lit. Now that first blood had been drawn, Eldarion no longer found himself afraid of what the next day would bring. After all, so much ground had already been won in just one skirmish against the men of the east. Tomorrow perhaps they might break their enemies' lines once and for all. With visions of a triumphant return to Minas Tirith playing in the back of his head, Eldarion followed after his father with a cheerful smile on his dirty face.


	7. Stars at Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Minas Tirith, the princesses of Gondor decide to go in search of a little adventure of their own. Arwen has faith in her daughters and her adopted people, while surprisingly Éowyn is the one with private doubts and uncertainties.

* * *

 

Dawn washed over the walls of Minas Tirith, bathing the city in a glow as golden as honey and as pink as spring roses. Pigeons cooed sleepily from their roosts in the bell towers, their voices echoing through the slumbering streets. The last stars of eventide lingered overhead as the sky faded from black to indigo to blue. Soon the bakers would begin their baking, filling the Circles of Minas Tirith with the scent of fresh bread. This was the time of day that Eruthiawen loved best.

With her long, glossy auburn tresses unbound and falling about her slender waist, the eldest daughter of Aragorn and Arwen stood at her balcony railing and watched the city wake up. The rising sun reflected in her grey eyes, eyes that anyone who had known Lord Elrond Half-Elven of Imladris would recognize in an instant. The coolness of the morning did not trouble Eruthiawen, clad as she was only in a cream colored night-shift. This high up in the Citadel of Minas Tirith there were few if any prying eyes to trouble a princess at leisure.

Eruthiawen took advantage of the calm to order her mind for the coming day. It was a habit she'd cultivated over time as her responsibilities gradually increased in parallel to her age. Every morning with the dawning she would arise and watch the stars fade while drawing up an unspoken schedule for herself. Today there were the usual lessons with their tutors, luncheon with visiting nobles from the harbor city of Pelargir, a quick trip to The Old Archives to search for previous copies of existing trade agreements with Dale, and finally a singing lesson to round out the day, time permitting.

Eruthiawen's pleasant daily ritual was abruptly interrupted by her chamber door swinging open without so much as a knock. There were only two people in all of Middle-Earth that would barge into her rooms in such a way. Both exasperated and pleased concurrently, Eruthiawen turned from the sunlit rooftops of Minas Tirith to greet her sisters.

"Do you never knock, Túrien?"

"Since when have  _you_  ever knocked before inviting yourself into  _my_  chambers?" Túrien parried.

As per her usual, Túrien's midnight black hair floated behind her like a cloud of ink. Only Arwen had sufficient influence to convince her middle daughter to let her brush and order her willful locks. Once Eruthiawen had been able to bully Túrien into letting her style her hair as well, but those days were long past.

Eruthiawen knew she needed only wait a moment to discover Almárëa's whereabouts. Sure enough, a bright smile beneath matching bright eyes stuck itself inside the doorway.

"May I come in, Eruthia?" Almárëa asked politely, using the nickname she and Túrien had bestowed on their elder sister in their toddling days.

"You may. You see Túrien; a child five years your junior can summon up more manners than you."

"I'm not a child." Almárëa pouted.

"You are twelve years old, which makes you a child Almárëa." Túrien said. "Even Eldarion isn't of age for another month yet, so by the reckoning of the laws he's still a child too."

Túrien flopped down onto Eruthiawen's chaise sofa, her lean arms and legs dangling over the sides. Eruthiawen knew for a fact that Túrien could present herself well, when the inclination happened to seize upon her. Those inclinations were firmly reserved only for formal settings though. One of their mother's favorite stories to retell was the evening she had found Aragorn and a nine-year-old Túrien both sprawled on the hearthrug, sound asleep like a pair of gangling hunting hounds before the fire.

"On that note, it seems both strange and somehow wrong that he and the others have gone off to war with Adar. Even the city feels unlike it did before with them gone."

Sighing, Eruthiawen abandoned any further attempt at day planning. With her sisters lounging on the furniture she ducked behind a screen in the corner of the room. Most noble girls in Minas Tirith their ages had personal maidservants. Arwen however insisted early on that her daughters were perfectly capable of dressing and grooming themselves, as per the customs of the elves. Even the queen herself relied solely on her own handiwork to prepare for any public appearances and events of state. Whenever laces in hard to reach places proved to be an issue, the princesses would simply call down the hallway and summon whichever sister happened to be available to help. Today however Eruthiawen's gown was a simple yet elegant cobalt blue selection which she stepped into without a second thought.

"I hope you have something more practical than that to wear today." Túrien remarked when Eruthiawen stepped out from behind the screen.

"Is this not practical enough for lessons and a political luncheon?"

"Eruthia!" Almárëa's little pink mouth screwed up in a scowl. "You promised!"

Eruthiawen hesitated, instantly going back through her list of activities for the day. Lessons, yes. Lunch, yes. Archives, yes. Singing, yes. Could she have forgotten something else? Then she actually took notice of her younger sisters' clothing. Both Túrien and Almárëa were clad in the plainest smocks and kirtles they owned, as nondescript as could possibly be managed from the wardrobes of princesses. Now that she thought about it, Eruthiawen wondered if they had borrowed such outfits from the Citadel servants.

"Ha, so you did forget after all!" There was a note of smug satisfaction in Túrien's voice. Standing, Túrien caught hold of Eruthiawen's wrist and pulled her back toward the screen. "You agreed that you would join us in going for a jaunt around the city today. And before you try to protest, I would also remind you that you promised to come along for the sake of 'keeping me from getting Almárëa into trouble'. Isn't that right, Almárëa?"

Almárëa bobbed her head vigorously. "Yes, you promised you would come, Eruthia. Come on, pleeeeeeeease!" Then the dreaded secret weapon was brought out to bear; a doe-eyed stare bordering on tearful pouting. "Pretty please?"

What could Eruthiawen possibly say when confronted with both her own word and her sisters' pleas? ' _The lowliest wretch who upholds their word has more to be proud of than the mightiest liar'_ , their father was fond of saying. The list of duties she had assembled for herself was crumpled up and tossed aside like parchment in the wind. Hopefully their tutors, Lord Faramir and their mother would forgive them.

"Very well, you have won." Eruthiawen admitted defeat, allowing Túrien to pull her blue gown off over her head.

With a squeal of delight Almárëa was scampering off down the hall. A few minutes later she returned with another plain cloth smock and matching kirtle for Eruthiawen to dress herself in. Pulling on simple leather shoes and tying their hair back in single braids, the three princesses thought they might escape excessive notice out in the city. It was a vain hope though; if one of them alone was distinctive then the three sisters together were nothing short of an exclamation point on the page of Gondorian humanity. No matter how thick or thin, the blood of the Eldar has never been content with anything less than extraordinary, after all.

They slipped out a servants' entrance around the side of the Citadel. The morning was still young enough that there were few people about to notice the princesses masquerading as commoners as they passed under the white stone archway that led down into the First Circle of Minas Tirith.

**OoOoO**

Their departure did not go wholly unnoticed, however. Eyes as grey as the sky before a storm narrowed with quiet mirth as Arwen Undómiel watched her daughters make their escape.

"I am still admittedly surprised that you did not at least have someone follow to keep an eye on them." Éowyn commented.

The White Lady of Ithilien and the Queen of Gondor stood in the shade of the White Tree, escaping the girls' notice, so intent had they been on not being noticed themselves. Éowyn was staying in Minas Tirith while Faramir served as Steward in Aragorn's absence. Lothíriel was also a guest of the White City at the present, but the Queen of Rohan preferred to wake a few hours later in the morning than Arwen and Éowyn. With the dawn still young and rosy on the horizon, Arwen and Éowyn went to the edge of the great Citadel to watch Eruthiawen, Túrien and Almárëa as they scampered down the streets of Minas Tirith in search of fun.

"Would you have done so?" Arwen asked Éowyn.

Up close, Éowyn was oddly comforted to see subtle creases around Arwen's eyes to match those which age had wrought on her own face. They were an endearing sign of the years which made the former daughter of elf-kind more approachable. The queen still retained her pointed ears though; little peaks which poked out through her dark tresses beneath the crown of Gondor.

"No." Éowyn admitted. "At least, I can imagine how little I myself would appreciate such an escort, if I were them. I do not have daughters though, and cannot say for certain."

Arwen smiled. Turning away from the city below, she approached the White Tree and sat on a bench beneath its pale eves. Éowyn followed, her buttercup yellow skirts rustling over the polished white pavement.

"The girls are not entirely unsupervised, even so."

"No?"

"When I overheard Almárëa swearing the servants to secrecy, I heard that Eruthiawen had agreed to come and was satisfied. My eldest is two and twenty, and I have faith that she will keep her sisters safe and out of any severe trouble."

Éowyn raised an eyebrow. "What about less severe trouble?"

Arwen laughed, a musical sound which softened the shoulders of the Citadel guards nearby beneath their swan-feather helms. "That I leave for them to experience for themselves. They are my brothers' nieces, after all. Besides, I know the mood of the people. They would no sooner see harm come to my children than to their own. They will be safe." Then it was the Evenstar's turn to raise her eyebrows at Éowyn. "I never imagined you to be one to fret over spirited young women, Shieldmaiden."

"Only here in the privacy of your confidence do I confess that I once yearned for spirited daughters such as yours, Arwen." Éowyn looked away to the sunrise, its glow bathing her fair face and making the white in her hair shine like new snow. "Instead I have a kind and gentle son, every inch his father's child. Elboron has never given me reason to fear for him, ever. Now that he has gone to war at your own son's side, I...I find my old yearnings returning with vengeance. Sons must serve their country on the battlefield; that is the way of the world. If I had a daughter though, I would never have to fear for her the way I must now finally fear for Elboron."

Gazing down at the collar of her wine red gown, Arwen fingered the crystal brooch that hung there. Fashioned into the shape of Eärendil's sky-bound vessel Vingilot by the jewelers of Imladris, it had been a gift from her father on her five hundredth birthday. The pain of her separation from her father, and her mother as well was ever present, sometimes closer to the surface than others. With a small, half-sad smile Arwen shook her head.

"Nay, daughters too can sometimes venture as far if not further from their family's arms than sons. I know my own father feared more for me throughout the War of the Ring than he ever did for my brothers. Danger for Elladan and Elrohir came in the form of sharp claws and cruel blades. The Doom of Men itself dogged my footsteps from the moment I met Aragorn, and my father knew it. Ah, how he grieved, even when I was still at his side."

Éowyn once had been reverent of Arwen to the point of being uncomfortable touching her. Now though it came easily for her to squeeze Arwen's wrist comfortingly. She half-smiled at her friend, one mother to another.

"Perhaps it is just the nature of children to fill their parents' days with both love and worry in equal measure. The moment Elboron was first laid in my arms I swore that I would rend apart anything that ever dared threaten him with my bare hands." Then a grim chuckle escaped her. "It seems I must now either go and tear to pieces the armies of both Rhûn and Harad, or be proven a gross exaggerator."

Arwen chuckled in amusement at the mental image that conjured. "And I have no doubt you would be more than capable of striking fear into the hearts of your enemies even today, mellon-nin. Still, we must allow our sons their turn, yes?"

"I like it not, but I suppose so." Éowyn grumbled. "How I would like to have my sword in hand, and feel the thrill of battle just one more time!"

Measured footsteps from the White Tower of Ecthelion alerted Arwen that they were no longer alone. The weight of the tread was too heavy to be Lothíriel, but too light to be a Citadel guard. Turning on the bench, Arwen smiled in greeting and urged Éowyn to turn with a toss of her head.

Faramir approached the two of them with an open roll of parchment in hand, consternation tightening the edge of his smile. The love was untarnished in his kiss when he bent to press his lips to Éowyn's though. Arwen he greeted with a respectful bow of his head.

"Pardon for disturbing you as your leisure, Your Grace, Éowyn." Faramir indicated the parchment he held, which Arwen now saw was a half-drafted toll agreement. "The delegation from Pelargir will be arriving soon, and I am struggling to come up with an acceptable rebuttal for their proposed waterway toll. They have been most insistent that as a port city, Pelargir ought to be free to charge those seeking to sail past them on the Anduin. Knowing how you and Lord Aragorn prefer the Aunduin to be left open, I thought perhaps you might have some suggestions for how to word this diplomatically?"

Reaching out for the parchment, Arwen's eyes swept down the tight, precise lines of text. The dock-masters of Pelargir were hardly being diplomatic in their own wording, she thought to herself. Still, being thousands of years old made the queen nothing if not exceptional at dealing with narrow minded mortals.

"Have you a quill, Faramir?" Arwen asked. Ever thinking ahead, Faramir promptly produced one seemingly from thin air. Point hovering in mid-air, Arwen paused. "Do you mind if I write on this?"

"Consider it a draft, Your Grace. I was planning on re-writing it before lunch regardless."

"Faramir?"

"Yes, Your Grace?"

Arwen gave the Steward an amused look. She could practically feel Éowyn's shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth. Good manners were instinctive to Faramir almost to the point of inconvenience.

"How many years must you and I consider ourselves friends before you will finally consent to addressing me by name, not title?"

Faramir looked chagrined. According to Éowyn, once a habit took hold of her husband it was like trying to redirect a river to change it. "Ah yes, my apologies...Arwen. In my defense, I do not keep forgetting intentionally." Faramir grinned, a boyish expression that brightened his entire face. Arwen completely understood how this good-natured, lordly man could have claimed the heart of a mighty woman like Éowyn.

Her thoughts now turned to matters of state, Arwen spared one last moment to wonder after her children. Where was Eldarion now? Was he safe and whole, alongside Aragorn? Where were Eruthiawen, Túrien, and Almárëa? Were they drinking warm cider and eating baked bread in the marketplaces, teasing passing youths and chatting with the friendly elders on their doorsteps? Arwen could not answer those questions, but she could answer Faramir's. Sometimes the divide between queen and mother could be an uncomfortable gulf to cross.


	8. The Rise and Fall of Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flush with yesterday's victory, it is easy for Eldarion and the other young lords of the west to feel invincible. They forget however that even their heroes are only flesh and blood...

* * *

 

The two armies of East and West passed a quiet if uneasy night, their watchmen eyeing one another across the trampled vastness between them. Clearing the field of the dead and the wounded had been a grisly task. Now the stage was once again a blank slate, awaiting another day of battle to bloody it.

Spirits were high though among the Men of the West as the pale Rhûnic sun rose. The previous day's success granted them much in the way of courage, and that did not exclude Eldarion, Elboron and Elfwine. The three young men bantered together as they saddled their horses and strapped on their armor.

"Take care today Elfwine, lest you inflict any more damage on that fair face of yours." Elboron was saying.

He and Eldarion had spent much of the previous evening assisting Aragorn with the care and tending of the wounded. Eldarion caught Elboron stifling a yawn with a teasing grin thrown in Elfwine's direction.

Elfwine snorted, giving the dent in his recovered helm one last tap before jamming it onto his head. Éomer lingered nearby, preparing his own gear while also making an admirable attempt at not obviously hovering.

"You could help with that cause by not finding your way into any more tight spots!" Elfwine swung up into the saddle with an easy grace that only a born and bred horseman could have managed...or perhaps an elf. "Let us all be agreed; no rescues needed today?"

"No rescues." Eldarion nodded fervently.

Gimli appeared from around Arod's flank. The dwarf wagged a finger at them, leaning an elbow on his battle axe. "Nothing's guaranteed in a fight, lads. There's no shame in needing a hand in a tight spot. Am I right Legolas?"

A head of golden hair straightened up into sight across Arod's back, bringing with it Legolas's usual placid smile. "Even the mightiest warriors need someone to protect their backs, as you and I well know, mellon-nin." The elf turned his gaze on Gimli, who shrugged nonchalantly but looked pleased all the same.

"You don't exactly make watching your back easy, laddie. When you go crawling all over those Oliphants, for example! You're more reckless than Aragorn and Éomer were fretting these three might be!"

"I take no risks that I do not fully expect to end well, Gimli." Now it was Legolas's turn to shrug in the face of his friend's good-natured scolding. "Perhaps your old age is making you more cautious?"

" _My_  old age?! Now listen here you pointy-eared relic!"

Eldarion, Elboron and Elfwine all joined in laughing at Gimli went stumping off to give Legolas a piece of his mind. The soldiers around them likewise grinned and shook their heads, well used to the unusual friendship between dwarf and elf. The odd pair was actually something of an army legend, both for their banter as well as their fighting prowess.

"Did you hear that?" Eldarion caught his father's eye from a distance and likewise climbed up onto Greyhame's back. The time was nigh for battle to rejoin. "Our fathers actually expected us to be  _more_  reckless?"

Elfwine raised an eyebrow, making the edge of the bandage on his brow peek out at the edge of one eyehole. "Perhaps yours did; King Aragorn is after all the one who led but a few thousand Men of the West to confront sixty-thousand orcs at the Battle of the Black Gate. You have to admit, it is hard to get more reckless than that!"

"Yes, but you also must admit that the gamble paid off." Eldarion replied, feeling a tiny bit defensive.

"Timing was very much their ally then." The army around them started to move at a command from Aragorn and Éomer, and Elboron finally mounted up on his own mare. "If the One Ring hadn't been destroyed, the outcome could have been very different."

"Your point being?" Eldarion asked.

Elboron had to raise his voice a little bit as the rumble of hooves rose from the assembling army. "Only that recklessness has a time and a place. Just like Legolas said, risks must be calculated."

"And then seized upon!"

Elfwine ended their little discussion with a throaty exclamation, pulling his axe off his back and giving it a twirl. The curved blade whizzed in midair, making the horse of the rider next to him flatten its ears. Then the prince of Rohan urged his own mount forward. This horse was a chestnut gelding, his usual roan charger excused from the day's clash on account of a wounded shoulder from yesterday's little 'incident'. Elboron rolled his eyes, making Eldarion chuckle. Sometimes Éomer and Éowyn's sons could be such dramatic opposites in personality, despite being cousins by blood.

As the cavalry of Rohan and Gondor organized themselves into their ranks with the kings at the head, Eldarion and Elboron made their way to Aragorn's side. Aragorn greeted Eldarion with a nod and a reassuring smile. Eldarion knew that Elfwine was only teasing, but he couldn't help wondering; did his father perhaps expect a little more daring from him? Yesterday had felt chaotic enough as it was!

"How are you feeling?" Aragorn spoke to both of them, his voice a murmur over the rumble of the army behind them.

"Less anxious than yesterday, Adar." Eldarion swallowed down the tiny ball of nerves in his throat and managed a smile. With the battlefield awaiting between them and the Sea of Rhûn it was hard to be entirely relaxed.

A brief smile flashed across Aragorn's noble, lined faced. "It does get better with each battle, that much I can assure you. And you, Elboron?"

Elboron called back across Eldarion, reining up his horse to keep abreast of the king. "Well enough, my lord. As Eldarion said, I think the first battle is likely the worst."

"You would be surprised." Aragorn said, sounding almost grim. For a moment the King of Gondor rode silently, caught up in a memory. Then he shook himself and spoke again. "I overhead what Gimli told you, and I wholeheartedly second it. You are never too mighty a warrior not to need a friend at your back. So heed what I told you yesterday; stay close together, and if you should need help you need only call and we will come."

"Yes Adar."

"Yes my lord."

Satisfied, Aragorn nodded. Then he turned his attention away and to the dark swath of the Men of the East across the field on the shores of the inland sea. Éomer led the Rohirrim around to the vanguard, their gold and green banners fluttering in the muted breeze. With the Sea of Rhûn at their backs, Eldarion thought this smacked of something of a last stand for the Men of the East. Knowing that they had the upper hand here strengthened his courage, and he felt a thrill rush through his veins when the horns of Gondor sounded in chorus with those of Rohan. With Elboron to his right, his father to his left and the Men of the West at his back, Eldarion was unafraid.

And then the charge was sounded. Once again they were flying down the field, the ground passing beneath their horses' hooves so fast it was a grey blur. Wind rushed through Eldarion's hair and ears, making his eyes water at the strength of it. Greyhame surged beneath him, and then it began.

Expecting the spears of the Easterlings this time, Eldarion urged Greyhame into the jump. They cleared the vanguard, spear-tips scraping against Greyhame's chest guard and Eldarion's pauldrons. Rather than swing haphazardly at anything he could reach, now Eldarion kept his wits about him. His sword thrusts were precise, picking targets such as a flash of skin between helmet and shoulder plates. The Rohirrim war-cries rose high and echoed throughout the valley, emboldening all who heard them.

Eldarion caught sight of Elboron nearby, and was surprised to see the heir of Ithilien had adapted a new strategy. Rather than stay in one place, allowing enemies to cluster around him, Elboron was attempting something that could only be called 'hit and run'. Leaning slightly to one side with his sword angled just so, Elboron would ride in a wide arc past the edge of where the Easterlings were gathered thickest. Eldarion realized that Elboron was mimicking what Aragorn had done yesterday; beheading enemies even as he rode past, just beyond reached of their short knives. Never did Elboron stay still long enough for the Easterlings to surround him. Eldarion grinned fiercely. Then an Easterling's knife glanced off his shin guards and he was pulled back into the here and now.

A loud whoop cut the air, and Eldarion looked up just in time to see Hama cheer as Éomer smashed right through a cluster of Easterlings. Eldarion was amazed both at the horse's sheer power and the balance of the King of Rohan to not be unhorsed by such a maneuver. He too let out a congratulatory cheer, raising his sword in the air. That moment of paying attention to the skyline was all that Eldarion needed though to realize something; where were the Mûmakil?

Turning Greyhame about on the spot, Eldarion scanned the battlefield. No Mûmakil anywhere, nor Haradrim at all for that matter. There were only Easterlings, un-mounted and bristling like hedgehogs in their sharp-edged yellow armor. With no Mûmakil to keep the Men of the West's lines broken up, Eldarion realized that the Easterlings were being cut down everywhere he looked. He also realized that between the twin armies of Rohan and Gondor, the center of the Easterling forces was thinning.

Seized by a sudden bold, maybe even reckless idea, Eldarion shouted to the nearest Gondorian standard bearer.

"You there, with me!" He twisted in the saddle to call over his other shoulder. "Elboron, Elfwine!"

Following Eldarion's outstretched finger, Elboron realized what he intended just in time to shout for Elfwine once more. Rather than seek out a standard bearer of Rohan, Elfwine slid hard over in the saddle and caught up a fallen flag of the Riddermark himself. With the black and white of Gondor and the green and gold of Gondor fluttering high overhead, they charged straight and hard for the thinning at the heart of the Easterling army.

"FOR GONDOR!" Eldarion shouted, his own voice ringing so loud it hurt his throat.

"FOR ROHAN!"

Elfwine's bellow was deep and throaty enough to catch the attention of anyone in the immediate vicinity who might on the off chance have missed Eldarion's rallying cry. Everyone else could only have been deaf and blind to miss such a charge.

"Eldarion!"

Aragorn shouted after the backs of the youths, caught by surprise by their sudden initiative. He tried to bring Brego around, but the old horse couldn't quite maneuver fast enough to get around the thicket of Easterlings Aragorn had been 'tending to'. A feeling of black helplessness bubbled up as the boys and their standards got further away.

"We're on their tail lad!" Aragorn heard a familiar and very welcome shout. "You worry about your own fight."

A white horse that Aragorn could have recognized anywhere came arrowing seemingly out of nowhere from the thick of the melee. Under the sure, instinctive guidance of Legolas, Arod gave chase to Eldarion, Elboron and Elfwine. They weren't the only ones either; dozens of Gondorian knights and Rohirrim, hearing the charge, were hot on their heels. Aragorn's frustration was warmed by a tentative wash of pride as he watched the Men of the West answer their princes' rallying calls. Then he had to catch a jabbing Easterling spear with his hand to avoid being impaled. Legolas and Gimli were with Eldarion and the others, and Aragorn knew he would trust his friends with anything, up to and including the lives of his children.

On every side Easterlings tried and failed to block Eldarion, Elboron, Elfwine and those who followed them. They broke through the Men of the East like a thunderclap, trampling their enemies wherever they tried to cut them off. Eldarion's heart thundered in his ears, and sweat trickled down the side of his brow. He could hear Greyhame's snorting breaths beneath him as the horse ran full-out. The press of their enemies all around them was enormous. They had to keep going; if they slowed for even a moment they would be crushed and pulled from their horses. Eldarion swung his sword in a wide arc before him, trying to clear the way. They had reached the tipping point; here the Easterling forces were at their strongest and most vulnerable both at once.

And then, suddenly, like breaking through a glass window, the Easterlings before them fell away, unable to hold back the horses with their slender, barbed spears. There were fewer and fewer Easterlings in front of him with each fall of Greyhame's hooves. Then there were none at all.

Reining up their horses, Eldarion and the others turned to look back. They were shocked to see Gondorians and Rohirrim pouring through the break in the Easterling lines behind them like water through a shattered dam. Pierced through the center and now cut off into two separate forces, the Easterlings were already beginning to panic. Now the men of Rhûn fought with desperation, trying only to take as many foes with them as they could. Several Easterlings rushed Eldarion head-on, their spears leading their retreat from the back of the army. Elfwine's axe disposed of one before they even reached Eldarion, where he and Elboron were waiting to finish them.

As fleeing Easterlings streamed past, a disbursing army of black ants, Eldarion looked over to Elboron and Elfwine in disbelief. Their charge had succeeded? A similar shock and growing excitement was reflected back at him in his friends' eyes. Elboron pulled off his helmet, sweaty gold curls falling about his brow as he looked around them. They stood like stones in a river that flowed around them in full eastern retreat.

With a whoop, Elfwine stood upright in the stirrups and thrust the banner of Rohan to the sky. A cheer began in the soldiers closest to them, and then began to grow. It echoed outward and backward through the army, building in volume and timber as the Men of the West came to realize that the battle was won. The enemy lines had broken.

"Eldarion, we did it! We did it!" Elboron leapt down off his mare, dropping his helmet in his excitement. Eldarion barely had a chance to dismount before Elboron had him caught up in a hug of pure exhilaration.

"How's that for nerve?!" Elfwine came crashing into their backs, nearly bowling the two of them over. "No rescues needed today, right Elboron?"

The three young men were so caught up in their celebrations that that they almost didn't notice the swelling crowd around them. Everywhere men of Gondor and Rohan were dismounting, joining their new champions in a victory cheer. It seemed everyone wanted to slap them on the shoulder or clasp them in a bruising handshake. They were jostled, deafened and shaken about by the hundreds upon hundreds of happy soldiers surrounding them. It was pure exhilaration. Eldarion could barely even direct his own footsteps; the men around him swept him along on and on through their ranks.

"We knew you were your father's son!"

"How about that, charging straight for the heart of darkness itself!"

"You're crazy, young prince, perfectly crazy!"

Eldarion's heart swelled with so much happiness and pride that he thought he might burst. By the time he finally made it back to the camps, all he wanted was to find his father. He had heard Aragorn's call just before the charge began. Briefly he worried that his father might be angry with him for having led such a wild assault. When at last he spotted Aragorn through the thick of men he felt nothing but relief though.

Finally breaking free of the latest handshake, Eldarion managed to make his way to stand before his father. In the presence of the king the men sobered and pulled themselves together somewhat. Aragorn stood with his arms crossed, a rather stern look on his face beneath the crown. His armor was bloodied, but he still looked as noble as ever. It made Eldarion feel like a young boy who had been rather naughty. Standing up straight and clasping his wrist behind his back, Eldarion waited for whatever his father might say.

For a long moment Aragorn looked Eldarion in the eye without speaking. The anticipation of the men around was nearly palpable. Eldarion thought he might die from sheer overload if his father did not say something, anything soon. Then, in one swift motion, Aragorn pulled Eldarion to him in a crushing embrace.

"You scared the life out of me, Eldarion." He murmured in his son's ear so that only they two might hear it. Then he stood back and clasped both his wrists. "But today this victory is yours." Then the king smiled, and Eldarion's relief nearly blinded him.

A great cheer went up from the men all around them, swelling to a roar so loud it made Eldarion's ears ring. The men to their left parted swiftly, respectfully, and King Éomer appeared with Elfwine at his side.

"Our sons have the hearts of lions and the brains of goats, Aragorn!" Éomer pulled Elfwine to him and clapped his son's shoulder in a powerful gesture of pride and affection. "I hardly know whether to tan this one's hide or cheer his name like a besotted bard!"

Aragorn laughed, a rare but always wonderful sound. "I say we settle for the latter for now, and save the former for later. The same goes for you, Elboron." Aragorn extended an arm and extricated Elboron from the press of soldiers. "You have some spark of your mother in you, and that I think will make her very proud indeed when she hears of today."

A happy flush crawled across Elboron's cheeks, and he bowed his head to Aragorn. "Thank you, my lord. Personally I am just happy to be alive and whole now that all is said and done."

Éomer chuckled. "You may fight like your mother, but you speak like your father, nephew. Come, let us celebrate, for today victory belongs to the young!"

Again a cheer went up from the armies of Gondor and Rohan, and there was great joy to be seen in the faces of all. Someone hoisted Eldarion's arm up into the air in a gesture of victory, and he found himself grinning sheepishly at Elfwine and Elboron who stood in similar predicaments. If this was what it felt like to be a hero, then he hoped never to forget this moment. Elation and relief swelled his heart to have at least begun living up to his father's legacy.

A song was just beginning to break out when Eldarion noticed Elboron looking around, frowning. The Steward's son met Eldarion's puzzled gaze, his blue eyes troubled.

"What is it Elboron?" Eldarion asked, shouting about the singing soldiers all around them.

"Have you seen Legolas, or Gimli?"

"I...no, I haven't actually, now that you mention them. Perhaps they're caught up in the army? Or hanging back until things settle down?"

"Perhaps..." Elboron sounded unconvinced.

Suddenly there was a shadow on the previously pure happiness of the moment. Eldarion found himself scanning the crowd, searching for the unmistakable fair hair of the elf and the squat figure of the dwarf. Finding neither, he navigated back through the throng of celebrating men to his father's side. He found Aragorn likewise standing a short ways apart from the army beside their camp.

"You've noticed their absence too then." It was less a question and more a statement coming from Aragorn. When Eldarion nodded, Aragorn's lips settled into a disquieted line. "It is not unlike Legolas to seek time to himself after a battle, but he and Gimli usually make at least a brief appearance, so that we might all see for ourselves that everyone is alive and well."

"Do you think something may be wrong, Adar?" Eldarion asked, shading his eyes from the pale eastern sun to scan the battlefield too. It was hard to see beyond the chaos of the celebrating Gondorians and Rohirrim.

Aragorn's brow furrowed. "I do not know, and that unsettles me. Did you see either of them during or after the charge?"

"No, I hardly knew they were even in the charge."

Éomer separated from the crowd and approached. The broad smile on his face faded when he saw the consternation on father and son's faces. "Is all not well?" The King of Rohan asked.

"Éomer, have you seen Legolas or Gimli since the Easterling lines broke?" Aragorn's calm voice belied the troubled look in his eyes.

Now the smile was altogether wiped off of Éomer's bearded face. Shaking his head, he waved over Elfwine. Elboron stood a short ways to one side, craning his neck trying to search the faces in the army.

"Elfwine, did you see either Legolas or Gimli with you in the charge?"

"Why no, I didn't. Why, is something wrong?"

Now Aragorn looked openly grim. Eldarion followed his father as Aragorn swept around the side of the encampment, ignoring cheerful calls from the men. With Éomer, Elfwine and Elboron on their heels, they made their way around the edge of the army, scanning the faces of all. Nowhere did they see anyone even remotely resembling their missing friends. Eldarion noticed that Aragorn was resolutely refusing to look toward the dead on the field.

"Elfwine." Éomer said in a low voice. "Get on your horse and ride a circuit of the battlefield. See if you can find them, alive or..."

"There!" Elboron shouted.

Aragorn whirled around so fast that his long black and red trimmed cloak fanned out behind him. Through the settling dust of the field they could just make out a lone figure approaching. Then they realized it was not one lone figure but two; one tall and slender with a second, shorter person carried child-like on their back.

"Lad, put me down now. I mean it Legolas, you put me down right this minute."

"I would Gimli, if I thought you able to walk even in the slightest."

Aragorn rushed toward his lost-and-found friends, all notions of kingly decorum utterly thrown to the wind. Eldarion thought he had never seen his father look so worried and so relieved.

"Gimli, Legolas, what is this!? You are wounded?"

Legolas greeted Aragorn and the others with a smile, made perhaps less genuine by the troubled pinch at the corners of his eyes.

"I am as fit and hale as ever, Aragorn. I fear though that our resident dwarf has managed to get himself stepped on by a horse."

"Ruddy creatures, I always knew it was foolishness to trust in such nervy beasts. Ah goats, there are truly loyal, intelligent steeds! Now Legolas, if you do not put me down I'll lop off some of this dratted yellow mess you've got blowing in my face."

Gimli was blustering, still trying to push his way down off of Legolas's back. As they drew closer to the army the dwarf's cheeks burned an angry, embarrassed red. Despite the threat to his much-lauded hair Legolas still did not set Gimli down. Only when they came closer did Eldarion see why. Gimli's left leg looked horrible. Blood had completely saturated his pant leg, as well as the strips of cloth which were tied around a makeshift splint. Something white glistened through the shredded fabric, and Eldarion's stomach flipped.

No less grim was the look on Aragorn's face. "Gimli, you will not try to walk on that leg even if Sauron himself appeared to chase you down. You say a horse stepped on you?" Aragorn was already moving straight into what Arwen called his 'Healer Mindset'. He waved Legolas after him, and the elf followed, carried the squirming, armored dwarf on his back as easily as if he were carrying a Hobbit child.

"An Easterling tried to attack Arod's un-defended flanks, and Gimli could not reach far enough back with his axe. So he dismounted to fight on foot. Unfortunately as the men got swept up in the charge someone did not notice Gimli in the melee and rode too close to him." Legolas was saying as they hurried toward the tents. "He was very lucky that his leg was the only thing that was trod on."

"I should say so!" Éomer exclaimed. "You could have been trampled to death, dwarf!"

Gimli shouted something about "head being higher from the ground" back at Éomer that Eldarion did not catch. Aragorn had Gimli set up on a cot in his own personal tent before banishing everyone but Legolas from the vicinity. With nothing else to do, Eldarion, Elboron and Elfwine had tried to join back in on the post-battle celebrations. On one hand, they were greatly relieved that Legolas and Gimli had both been found alive. On the other hand, it was hard to make merry after seeing the ruin of Gimli's shin. After a while they all found themselves drifting away from the celebrations to hover outside of Aragorn's tent.

The sun was just beginning to set when at last Aragorn stepped out from his tent. Long gone was his royal raiment, reduced now to only a simple tunic and leggings. The cloth in the king's hands was bloodied. Just before the tent flap fell back into place Eldarion thought he caught a glimpse of Legolas sitting close at hand to where Gimli lay on the cot.

Éomer waved aside the lieutenant he had been speaking to, immediately concentrated on Aragorn instead.

"Well, how does he fare?" He asked.

With a sigh, Aragorn crumpled up the cloth, concealing it inside his hand. "We set the bones, but the damage was worse than even I had feared. Gimli is determined that he will walk again, and so I do not doubt that he will. Never again will the Lord of the Glittering Caves stand and fight in battle though."

An uncertain silence fell over the five mortals. Eldarion bit his tongue and looked down. A knot of unease gnawed at his stomach, hard and cold. He had felt so immortal, so untouchable earlier that day after the Easterling lines broke. Part of that came from knowing he fought alongside heroes of the Fellowship of the Ring; the ultimate in legendary invulnerability. To imagine any of their elders, demi-god like champions in Eldarion's admiring eyes falling prey to such mortal things as injury and death was deeply unsettling.

"Come though, why such unhappy faces?" Aragorn rallied, clapping Eldarion and then Elboron on the shoulder. "Gimli will live, and his characteristic gentle humor is far from damaged."

"Can we see him?" Elfwine asked, still sounding concerned.

Aragorn shook his head. "Not at the moment, young Elfwine. No, for now I would recommend rest and quiet. Setting those bones was an ordeal not easily forgotten."

Eldarion was just about to suggest he, Elboron and Elfwine go rejoin the men when a Gondorian watchman came running through the encampment. The soldiers's eyes were wide with surprise and nervous energy.

"My lords, my lords!" He cried, staggering to a halt just long enough to bow to the kings and princes assembled.

"What is it, Oghan?" Aragorn was once again alert, all trace of weariness leaving his tired face.

"Three figures approach from the sea, my lord." The watchman gasped. "They look to be Haradrim from their garb. They carry a white banner."

"An envoy of peace?" Éomer frowned. "They seek to treat with us only after a resounding defeat, do they? The time is rather past for that."

"The Haradrim did not fight today, Father." Elfwine spoke up, looking from Éomer to the watchman. "Perhaps they do not feel they share the Easterlings' loss?"

"Then they are rather poor allies indeed." Éomer remarked drolly, crossing his arms across his still-armored chest.

"You say there are three, and only three?" Aragorn was once again speaking to the watchman.

"Yes my lord, approaching on foot from the east."

Aragorn looked to Éomer. "I will meet with these men, if they lay down their arms and come peaceably to the table. Will Rohan join us?"

Éomer's scowl deepened, but he gave a curt nod. "Very well. I will hear no talk of offering lands to these ruffians though. I expect a formal offer of surrender, nothing more."

"We shall see." Aragorn replied. "Oghan, have the Haradrim envoys brought to the Commanders' Tent at the center of camp. We will join them there presently."


	9. Parlay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite misgivings, Aragorn and Éomer meet with the chieftains of the Haradrim. Eldarion is surprised to find the warlords to be exactly and yet completely unlike what he expected.

* * *

 

An hour later saw them all gathered in the Commanders' Tent at the heart of their encampment. Aragorn sat on a folding chair of dark cherry wood in the north of the tent, the flag of Gondor hanging upon the tent wall behind him; a backdrop of black weave and white stars. Éomer sat likewise at the western side, Elfwine standing at his right hand and the mossy green flag of Rohan with its prancing white horse and sun behind them. Eldarion likewise stood straight and alert at on his father's right, Elboron hanging just slightly behind him. Kingsguards of both Gondor and Rohan watched the three men at the center of the tent warily, their gloves tight on the hilts of their swords and spears.

The Haradrim envoys were strange to Eldarion's naive eyes, and he took in all aspects of their appearance as closely as they were watching the lords of the West. Very interestingly, their armor, rather than being of steel or chain instead was fashioned from basketwork components. Their shoulder plates and corset-like midriff protectors were made of dark reddish basketwork with vertical lines of strange beads, bone and amber, decorating the front. Some of the beads were large skull shapes, while smaller beads were bright blue and amber. Their clothing underlay was of ragged dusty-red and red-brown linen, the skirt of the outfit almost layered torn strips. There was a protective burnoose and face cloth that had some stitching to shape it, dyed red or dark brown colors. Even their weaponry, which the guards had insisted surrendered at the entrance to the tent, was in the same reddish colors, and their bows were reinforced with some of the same basketwork as in their armor. Eldarion wondered how simple dried reeds could possibly protect the Haradrim from harm in combat. Then he remembered that most of the Haradrim fought from the backs of Mûmakil, and so had no need for close quarters protection.

The three men wore their black face cloths right up until they stood before the kings themselves. Rather than bow, they lifted their hands, palms inward, toward their faces before turning their palms outward. Aragorn and Éomer likewise inclined their chins slightly in a minimalistic greeting and acknowledgement, as befitting an exchange between enemies. Elfwine, Eldarion and Eomer, being out of the main focus, did not have to make any such gestures. Instead they kept silent, watching every move made by all parties. Only after this exchange did the Haradrim reach up to unpin their cloths, revealing the faces beneath.

All three were of a deep olive complexion, darker than even Elfwine could ever have managed after a long summer out riding in the sun daily. They lined their eyes with a black smudging, similar to ash, which seemed to make the brown within shine like polished stones in a riverbed. All three were also heavily painted, their jaws and cheeks streaked with yellows, browns and reds in all manner of odd patterns. Beneath all that though, Eldarion was able to note some distinctive features of each man.

One was enormously tall, taller even than Aragorn himself. There were bits of grey noticeable in the stubble along his chin and cheeks, and his brow was lined by a lifetime of wind and desert sand. No doubt in his youth, with his height the strength of his features, he would have been a terrifying opponent to come up against. Come to think of it, he still was; Eldarion certainly wouldn't want to square off against him. Even so, there was a slight pull of his iron-gray brows that gave the man a quizzical look that softened his overall imposing presence.

The second Haradrim, the one in the center of the three, was shorter than his companions but no less of a commanding figure. Wild black hair hung down from beneath his head wrap, clinging to the back of his neck and around his ears. Red paint in the shape of talons had been worked down the sides of his nose, lending the man a fierce, peaked look. His dark eyes smouldered like burning coals as his gaze slide from Éomer to Aragorn...and then to Eldarion. Eldarion tried to match those eyes for focus and intensity, but had a feeling his youth was all too obvious to this man of Harad.

On the right of the three, most likely the youngest of the three in his mid-thirties, the last envoy stood staring directly ahead at Aragorn, with an occasional glance sideways at Éomer out of the corner of his eyes. His nose was large and uneven, suggesting it had been broken on more than one occasion. His brows and beard with hugely thick and black, but neatly trimmed. A scar dragged at the corner of one eye, giving him a slightly lopsided appearance. Even if all these things took away from what might have been a handsome visage, they gave him a sense of age that put him on par with the other two Haradrim.

"We greet you, O Kings of the West." The Haradrim in the center spoke, his words heavily accented with a very round, almost throaty enunciation. "I am Na'Man, Chieftain of Abrakhân." He spoke to Aragorn and Éomer in turn, keeping his lean frame directed at the space between the two make-shift thrones.

"I am Tufayl, Chietain of Pazghar." The third man with the war-torn face and thick brows spoke, his words low and smooth.

"And I am Bakr, Chieftain of Harmindon." The first, tallest and oldest Haradrim chieftain's voice was amazingly low, lower than the best baritone singer Eldarion had ever heard. Even a dwarvish war horn would have been hard pressed to match such a voice.

"On behalf of Gondor I offer you greetings, Chieftains Na'Man, Tufayl and Bakr." Aragorn said, nodding to each in turn. The silver crown of the line of Númenor glimmered in the pale sunlight streaming in from the tent door.

"Rohan likewise greets you, Men of Harad." Éomer's words were tight, his jaw clenched as rigidly as his shoulders. "Long have your people and ours met as worthy foes on the battlefield."

"Will you take some refreshment?"

Aragorn raised a hand to signal a page with a tray of water and fruit forward. The boy did not look at the Haradrim as he hurried to place the tray on a small table to one side. Neither Na'Man nor Tufayl made a move toward the food. Bakr however stepped over and picked up a pear, biting into the sweet flesh. Eldarion got the sense that this was a man too at ease with the world to stand on ceremony. His musings were confirmed when Bakr casually unwound the rest of his head wrap to toss back over one shoulder, revealing a gleaming bald scalp inked with a myriad of strange and incredible black patterns. Eldarion thought he could just see a black eye tattooed into the very back of Bakr's head above the nape of his neck before he turned.

Éomer leaned forward in his seat, his green and gold-trimmed cloak falling forward about his shoulders. There was an impatient light in the King of Rohan's eye.

"You have come to us bearing the white flag of truce, and so here we all stand. What is your purpose for calling such a meeting in the wake of your defeat?"

Tufayl's lip curled slightly, giving his damaged face a grim sort of humor. "Not  _our_  defeat, Horse Lord. The only loss today was that of the Easterlings."

"Why was that so? I am curious." Aragorn asked.

"We are not and have never been Sauron's fanatical servants in the manner of Easterlings." Tufyal's words dripped with scorn. "To fight for the Dark Lord in the War of the Ring was less a choice and more a necessity for our people."

"And so you abandoned your last remaining allies in their final hour?" pressed Éomer. "Hardly an act worthy of praise."

Na'Man's hawk-like brow arched. "Perhaps not, if you are an Easterling. We suggest you see it as a gesture of good faith on our part."

"You come seeking terms for a truce then, I take it?"

Eldarion could hardly believe his father could speak with such a straight face while Éomer was staring a hole through the side of his head. No doubt this was exactly the turn of conversation that the King of Rohan had been warning them all about. Rather than let things proceed in their current direction organically, Éomer interjected swiftly.

"Even if you claim not be have been defeated today in battle, you are still in a rather poor position to be asking terms, Chieftain Na'Man. It is not the typical way of war for the losers to be making demands of the rightful victors."

Immediately Tufayl and Na'Man's hooded brows knitted together and their expressions grew dark. Bakr alone seemed unperturbed, still snacking on his pear. Eating the last bite, he set the core back on the platter before clearing his throat and speaking.

"You are right, King of Rohan, it is not the typical way. Still, we have come here today to ask that you treat with us as equals. Why should you do that, you ask, when as you rightly point out you have won the day? To you I say then; what of tomorrow? Long has Harad felt itself a lesser, a second-class people under the heel of the West. Why else do you think we turned to Sauron, when his agents came to us promising green lands and good waters? Hear our requests, negotiate with us a people different but equal to your own, and perhaps things need not return to the way they were before."

Na'Man spoke as Bakr turned away to pour himself a goblet of water. "Bakr speaks what is in the hearts of many Haradrim chieftains." He looked directly at Aragorn with his smouldering black gaze. "The stewards of Gondor have long done ill by us, your neighbors. Will you, the returned ranger King, finally amend these ills and make Harad your ally?"

This speech from the chieftains of Harad produced a profound effect on the occupants of the Commanders' Tent. Éomer appeared deep in troubled thought, fingering his greying dirty-blonde beard as he eyed the Haradrim. Eldarion exchanged a glance first with Elboron, then with Elfwine. Elboron looked bright, hopeful even, his honest interest in Bakr and Na'Man's words plain to see. Elfwine's expression was a little more guarded, but his main focus seemed to be on his father and how Éomer would react. For his own part, Eldarion was unsure what to think. The Haradrim and the Easterlings had been synonymous with 'enemy' in Gondor for the duration of his entire life and well before then. Never once had he been given any evidence to the contrary that these strange men and their enormous war-beasts could be anything other than hostile presences. Still, now that he saw Tufayl's quizzical guardedness, Na'Man's blunt words yet sharp gaze, and Bakr's nonchalant wisdom, he found himself curious and wanting to know more of these people than just their weapons of war.

Finally Aragorn spoke, lacing his fingers together beneath his chin. "And what would Harad ask from the West, in exchange for peace and fealty?"

"We want Harondor, the lands your stewards of old wrestled from our people and branded South Gondor. We want access to the mouth of the mighty Anduin river at Pelargir, to trade our goods and sail where we may. We want to pass freely through the lands of Ithilien, Lebennin and Dol Amroth without being seen as intruders, as the folk of Rohan freely mingle with those of Gondor in the Eastfold and Anórien. In short, we want to restore Harad to its proper place in the south of Middle-Earth."

Tufayl rattled off this list plainly and without hesitation, as if he had been reciting it in his own mind for some time already. Eldarion's mind immediately went to the maps of the realm, and his stomach dropped. Harondor had been a part of Gondor for centuries. Lying just south of Ithilien across the Anduin, it was a sparse yet undeniably striking territory, littered with stratified cliffs, winding valleys of stone and short, sharp grass. Harondor was also an enormous stretch of land, almost the size of Rohan itself. Giving over South Gondor would mean essentially placing the Haradrim at Ithilien's doorstep. A glance over his shoulder at Elboron revealed that the Prince of Ithilien's son remained optimistic, if not somewhat more guardedly so. Eldarion wondered what Legolas and his colony of elves would think of having Haradrim for neighbors.

Éomer rumbled low in his throat but held his silence. Harondor was not in any way under the sway of Rohan, and so the Haradrim's requests held little to no impact for his own country. It was obvious that Éomer was not in favor of the idea of surrendering such an enormous territory to a former enemy though. He and Aragorn met one another's eye, and Éomer shook his head ever so slightly. Aragorn's brow twitched in what might have been a frown. Then he addressed the Haradrim.

"Your requests, while not entirely unreasonable for a sovereign nation and potential ally, are nonetheless no small matters. I cannot make any promises, but I will give you my word that I will take your terms back to Minas Tirith for discussion. I may be king, but I do not make decisions for my people unilaterally."

"No doubt." Bakr set down his empty water goblet. "You will, of course, want to bring our terms to your queen, The Lady Evenstar."

Then Aragorn smiled, a little surprised that these Haradrim chieftains would know how closely he discussed all matters of governance with Arwen. "Yes, there you are quite right, Chieftain Bakr."

"Return to your city and deliberate, King of Gondor." Na'Man said. "I suspect though that you do not yet truly understand the people whose lives you are deliberating on. Thus I would like to extend an invitation to yourself, Queen Evenstar and your children to come and see Harad for yourself." He turned to Éomer. "I extend the same invite to you and your family, King of Rohan."

"My people would gladly host you in Harmindon, where we all might meet." Added Bakr. "That is, if you will consent to accept the invitation."

Aragorn thought for a moment before answering. "I cannot speak for any but myself, but I will accept your invitation."

Na'Man smiled then, and the embers behind his dark brown eyes truly shone, the effect magnified by the dark paint smudged around them.

"We will look to your coming before the first day of autumn then, King Aragorn. What say you, King Éomer?"

Éomer chewed the edge of his mustache, a habit Eldarion knew for a fact that Lothíriel would chide him for if she were present. His bushy brows looked like two caterpillars trying to fight one another for dominance. Finally the King of Rohan squared his shoulders and sat straight on his seat.

"I cannot give my answer at this moment, Chieftains. As you well know, enmity between our two peoples runs deep, and before Rohan extends the hand of friendship I must seek the counsel of not just my inner circle, but minds both wiser and further-seeing than mine."

"Very well." Tufayl replied. "We will anticipate your coming with King Aragorn all the same though, know that. Gondor and Rohan are two nations too closely linked to diverge on allegiances, I think." Éomer nodded curtly, but seemed to consider these words at length.

"You have given us much to think on today, Chieftains of Harad." Aragorn stood, signally that this negotiation had reached its conclusion. "Éomer, are we both agreed that the Haradrim shall be allowed to quit the field today with no further confrontation from either Gondor or Rohan? The same likewise and opposite to you, Chieftains? The Easterlings are scattered and fleeing into the hills beyond the sea. Let us consider this battle over, and return to our hearths and homes."

"Agreed." Came the chorus from all the men in the Commanders' Tent.

Oghan showed the Haradrim from the tent, and Eldarion watched them go before letting out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. Everyone else likewise sagged as the tension from moments ago quickly dissipated.

"Well, that went rather well?" Elfwine offered, clapping a hand on his father's shoulder. Éomer massaged his brow and did not answer, but Eldarion saw the corner of his mouth quirk a little.

Elboron chuckled, brushing back a few blonde curls that were threatening to fall over his brow. He really did look quite beguiling when he did that. "Considering that there are hundreds of years of blood between West and East, I think I am safe in venturing that that might have been the longest civil conversation any man of Gondor or Rohan has had with a Haradrim in this generation."

"I think you may be right there, Elboron." Aragorn said, removing the crown from his head. "For my part though, I think that is quite enough of negotiations for today. What do you say?" He smiled, looking around at all gathered in the tent. "Shall we start making preparations for the return journey?"

The encampment came down quickly, with all the men of Rohan and Gondor working to pack up their supplies and load them onto the army supply wagons. Gimli had to be settled into the back of one of those wagons; Aragorn had point-blank refused to even consider the possibility of his injured friend traveling on horseback. Legolas had taken some of the indignity out of such a mode of transport by joining Gimli on the wagon, leaving Arod free to canter about on the periphery of the army. Still, listening to the dwarf grumble, threaten and bluster had soothed some of the lingering guilt Eldarion still felt over the charge that had resulted in Gimli's leg being crushed. For all his endless protests, Gimli never once bemoaned the actual events which had led to his crippling, and for that Eldarion would be eternally thankful to him.

As they rode up the thin road to the top of the ravine which they had first entered upon by battlefield by, Eldarion looked back toward the Sea of Rhûn. In the distance he could see the Haradrim army moving out as well, the Mûmakil visible as gigantic silhouettes against the sinking sun. No war horns sounded out this time, and the sound of thousands of voices reached him on the wind. He wondered what stories and songs the Haradrim would pass amongst each other to make the journey home go by? Then Elboron rode by and tapped him on the shoulder, bringing him back to the present moment. Urging Greyhame forward up the hillside, Eldarion sought out Aragorn and fell into place at his side. They had fought their first battle and survived, and now they were going home.


	10. A Breath of Autumn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The army returns home triumphant, and The White City celebrates. Amidst all of the happiness and hope though, Arwen Evenstar's foresight warns her that her family's days together have begun their slow but inevitable decline...

 

* * *

 

It was Almárëa who first spotted the banners of the army, tiny flecks of black and green on the distant east horizon, even before the tower guards. Her skirts billowing about her skinny knees, the little princess jumped down from her perch at the Citadel wall, crying out for all to hear.

"They're back, they're back! Adar and Eldarion are home!"

Almárëa's calls brought Arwen and Eruthiawen rushing out from the Tower of Ecthelion and Éowyn and Túrien from somewhere in the Second Circle of the city. Faramir was not far behind, along with the nobility of the White City. Soon the call was taken up by others throughout Minas Tirith, and all dropped whatever they were doing to fill the streets. An air of great gladness and also great anticipation hung heavy in the air like a summer fog, even though the day was bright and sunny. Very soon the fates of many would be revealed to their eagerly waiting loved ones.

Her doe-like eyes wide with delight, Almárëa ran to Arwen's side.

"Naneth, Naneth, can you see them?! Just there, beyond the north watchtower of Osgiliath?"

The queen smiled, taking her youngest daughter's hand and squeezing it. Arwen was the picture of queenly poise, the crown upon her raven-black hair shining like the moon in the vaulted night sky. When she saw for herself the growing wave of soldiers approaching from the east, her eyes lit up no less brightly than Almárëa's.

Túrien and Eruthiawen came to join Arwen and Almárëa at the parapet. Túrien was clad roughly in a fitted jerkin and leggings, setting her in sharp contrast to Eruthiawen's robin's egg blue gown. The two were undoubtedly sisters in their mirroring, eager postures as they leaned toward the horizon.

"We should probably wait to greet Adar and the others when they reach the Citadel." Eruthiawen said, her voice trailing off somewhat as her clear grey eyes feasted on the sight of the army.

"Aye, we should..." Faramir, lord of all things decorum said, sounding likewise unconvinced. He and Éowyn exchanged a look.

"Fie on waiting!" Túrien cried, whirling around on her boot-shod heel. "I'm going down to the gates!"

"Wait for me, I'm coming too!" Almárëa dropped Arwen's hand and took off after Túrien, a spring in her light step.

"Naneth...?" Pausing, Eruthiawen looked to Arwen. The eldest princess already had her gown hitched up in her hands, ready to give chase to her sisters.

A slow, playful smile tugged at Arwen's cheeks. Éowyn was already on the move. "I will race you down there, iel-nin." The queen of Gondor declared.

* * *

 

When the gates of Minas Tirith fell open before them, Eldarion could no longer contain the smile of relief which had been waiting to surface ever since they first saw the White City. They had been gone only a matter of weeks, and yet this felt like a long awaited homecoming. With Aragorn and Éomer leading the way, the lords of the west rode into the main city square.

People were everyone; on balconies, crowded in the streets, shouting from their windows. Conflict with the East had been too long enduring, and it seemed that a great weight was now lifted from the shoulders of all folk. The banners of Gondor and Rohan fell slack as they lost the wind beyond the city walls. The lords of Gondor had returned, and at last the swords could be sheathed once more.

With a kingly smile of greeting for his people, Aragorn lifted his clenched hand to the sky in a gesture of victory. This announced their win over the men of the East better than any speech could have. Instantly a cheer went up from all around, sure to spread throughout the entire city. There would be great celebration in Minas Tirith that night.

Eldarion saw Almárëa threading through the crowd, between the still-mounted soldiers only a moment after Aragorn did. Aragorn slid from the saddle in time to open his arms wide to his youngest daughter. Almárëa launched herself at Aragorn, wrapping her arms around his neck heedless of the dust of travel.

"Ada, you're home!" Almárëa cried.

The utter lack of decorum on the part of the young princess opened a similar floodgate for all of the other families about them. Children ran to their fathers, parents embraced their sons. There was no need to stand on ceremony in the face of such loving relief. Those who were unfortunate enough to have lost a loved one were surrounded by comfort readily given on all sides.

Aragorn squeezed Almárëa tightly to him, nuzzling her soft cheek with the stubble on his chin. "I promised you that I would be, my little light." Then Túrien reached him, and he set down Almárëa to embrace his middle child. "And here is my fierce storm in all her glory."

Túrien bowed her head to let her father kiss her brow, a tender gesture she would not have tolerated from anyone else. Almárëa meanwhile fair near pounced on Eldarion.

"Eldarion, thank the Valar you made it!" Almárëa was squeezing Eldarion so hard around the waist that it nearly crushed the breath from him. Eldarion returned the hug with just a shade less strength, not wanting to squash his littlest sister.

"What, you were doubtful that I would, Almárëa?" He asked, his words teasing. "Have you so little faith in my skill with a blade?"

Arwen and Eruthiawen were only moments behind the younger girls, and Aragorn greeted them both with tender reverence, declaring them the queens of his heart. Nearby, Elboron had nearly been pulled down off his mare by Éowyn and Faramir in their haste to embrace him. Elboron met Eldarion's eye over his mother's shoulder, and the two of them grinned at one another. They could hear Queen Lothíriel somewhere close at hand, showering her husband and son with scolding and love in equal measure.

"My victorious horse lords, come! You must tell me all that happened in the East, and...Elfwine, what is that? No, don't turn your face, take that helmet off! Éomer...however did this happen to our son?"

Listening to Éomer and Elfwine both trying to explain away the magnificent green, purple and black bruise above Elfwine's eye was certain to be amusing. Eldarion's attention was pulled away by another form of blustering. Gimli was being helped out of the back of the cart, and he was even less pleased at the idea of being carried on a stretcher than he had been at having Legolas carry him on the battlefield. Almárëa was at her favorite 'uncle's' side in a twinkling.

"Gimli, what happened to your leg? Oh why does it look so swollen?" She was already trying to lean in for a closer look at the splint.

Gimli gently batted Almárëa back. "No lass, that's no sight for a wee girl like you to be seeing. You let it be, I'm alright."

Finally it was agreed that Legolas would take Gimli up to the Houses of Healing on Arod's back, rather than the dwarf suffering the indignity of a ride on a stretcher all the way up through the city. Aragorn sent his friends on their way with a promise that he would come to check on Gimli's leg presently. Once all the soldiers were officially dismissed, the royals all together returned to the Citadel. Aragorn walked with Arwen, arm-in-arm with their four children close behind, all chattering happily together. Éomer followed with Lothíriel tucked against his chest. Elfwine and Elboron jested with one another as they walked, the two cousins cheerfully shoving one another and earning a half-hearted scolding from Faramir, whose hand was claimed by Éowyn. Kings and queens, princesses, stewards and lords they might be, but as they all walked together they savored the simple joy of friendship.

* * *

 

That evening, as promised, there was a great gathering in the Merethrond, the Great Hall of Feasts. All of the captains of Rohan and Gondor were present, as well as from Dol Amroth, Ithilien and Lebennin. The cloaks of the Rohirrim added a rich, earthy presence to the polished marble hall, none more splendid that Éomer with the golden crown of Rohan on his brow.

Raven-haired Lothíriel glimmered at her lord husband's side in royal blue and silver, ear cuffs in the design of curling swan necks paying tribute to her origins as a princess of Dol Amroth. Her brother Elphir captured Faramir and Éowyn early on in the evening, the three of them sitting at the end of the head table deep in discussion. The White Lady of Ithilien complemented her dark-clad husband in a gown of buttercup yellow as the sun complements a sunset sky. Almárëa was still fussing over Gimli, who sat with his crippled leg propped up on a pillow. The dwarf had long since given up on trying to call her off, and instead repaid her concern with dramatic retellings of the battle itself. Túrien, looking disgruntled in red satin was eagerly listening to Gimli's war stories in between peppering Elfwine and Eldarion with questions about the eastern armies. Eruthiawen meanwhile played referee to a riddle contest between Elboron and Legolas, and if her bell-like laughter were any indication someone was losing quite badly.

At the center of the head table, Aragorn looked sideways at Arwen and smiled. Here, surrounded by their kin, dear friends, and loyal subjects, all felt right with the world. Aragorn still would have preferred to be out beneath a starlit sky singing old ballads for their children. Still, not everything could be perfectly as a person wished. Arwen returned the smile and flicked her gaze slightly. It was time for a speech from the king. Aragorn sighed internally but nodded, prompting Arwen to pat the back of his hand as he rose.

Immediately the Great Hall fell silent when the High King stood, all eyes turning to the head table. This was a moment of glory for Gondor, and Aragorn looked every bit the victorious lord. Gazing up at her husband, Arwen felt a prickling of foresight. This was the summit of an era. The end of the War of the Ring had begun a new age, and Aragorn had been just at the beginning of his prime as king. Like an elf can smell the very moment in which summer turns to autumn, Arwen sensed that first whisper of the changing winds. Leaves must turn from green to gold, and the sun must fade with the year. The Evening Star of Gondor turned somber as she saw a vision of not Aragorn, but Eldarion standing tall in the seat of honor with a crown upon his head. Had it begun already, so soon? Ah, the bitterness of mortality that seasons should change so swiftly.

"Lords, ladies, friends." Aragorn began. "We gather here tonight to celebrate renewed peace in Middle-Earth, but also to look to the days ahead. Peace seems a fragile thing, given to wavering in the face of old grudges and uncertainties. Peace must be tended to with all the care of a fresh seedling, mindful of the winds of change and the storms of long, tumultuous history. Yet know this; if we nurture that precious seedling, watering it with hope, trust, and forgiveness, one day a mighty oak might stand firm in its place. Nations may rise from ash in such manners, and the fruits of wisdom will be shared by generations to come."

At the mention of forgiveness a quiet murmuring went up around the hall. Éomer sat calm and expressionless, but many could guess at what Aragorn foreshadowed. The enmity between west and east ran dark and deep in the south of Middle-Earth; many in Gondor and Rohan had lost kin to the long wars with the Easterlings and Haradrim. Aragorn knew that, if the terms of Harad were to be accepted by his people, the process of reconciliation would have to begin now, this very moment, long before they were even brought before the Council. It would take time, a great deal of time, to heal the wounds of war.

"Come, let us now turn out thoughts to hope and joy." Reaching down, Aragorn took up his silver goblet. Éomer likewise stood, lifting his own cup, as did Arwen and Lothíriel. "To the future."

"To the future." Arwen echoed.

Éomer did not repeat Aragorn's toast, but he did drink from his chalice all the same. The king of Rohan's gaze slid to Elfwine, standing between Eldarion and Túrien. Despite the mottled bruise on his brow, his son's handsome, square-jawed face remained as cheerful and open as ever. Éomer drained the goblet then without any further hesitation.

Once dinner was over and the long tables cleared to make way for dancing, Arwen excused herself from Aragorn's side. Understanding the needs of his half-elven wife for moments of peace, Aragorn nodded and kissed her hand with his chapped lips. His brow may be weathered and his beard and hair shot with silver, but Aragorn's eyes have never changed, Arwen mused as she made for the balcony at the end of the hall. Many bowed in deference as she passed. The queen of Gondor was still breathtaking, the black beads on her burgundy gown winking like dew-slicked thorns on a rose. Arwen noticed that the riddle game now consisted of Elboron and Eruthiawen; Legolas was no longer with them. Knowing the elf lord of Ithilien to likely be of the same mind as her, Arwen was unsurprised to find Legolas already out on the balcony.

Legolas's silvery blonde hair glimmered in the starlight, his embroidered tunic only a few shades darker. He stood facing the city, his long slender fingers resting on the balcony rail. Even Legolas's fair skin seemed to glow with the inner radiance of the Eldar, a glow Arwen had long since lost. The whisper of Arwen's hem was enough to alert him to her presence. Arwen greeted him with a heartfelt smile, then a soft laugh.

"The years may have aged me,  _mellon-nin_ , but not so for you. You are still as light and golden an ellon as Lúthien Tinúviel was dark and beautiful an elleth."

Legolas chuckled and shook his head, making room for Arwen at the cool stone railing. Eärendil's star hung low and bright in the sky already, always the first to appear and the last to fade each night.

"My father was freer with his flattery in my earliest days. Who told you that phrase?"

"Mithrandir, of course. The old wizard was rather fond of gossiping about the elvish realms you know, especially to my father."

"That hardly surprises me. Gandalf the Grey did have a penchant for spinning yarns." Legolas leaned back on his elbows, studying Arwen in the low light. "You are neglecting your guests, Your Grace."

Arwen looked back over her shoulder toward the golden glow of the Great Hall. Music reached them from within, and already the gliding forms of dancing couples could be seen on the floor.

"They are well used to their queen's unusual tendencies by now, I think."

"Something weighs on your thoughts, Undómiel?"

Arwen sighed, lacing her fingers together and studying them in the moonlight. "Nothing that I did not fully accept when I gave my heart to Estel, so many years ago. Foresight tells me that tonight marked a turning, the beginning of the waning of our years together. I cannot explain it...but my heart whispered so to me tonight.

"Fleeting are the days of mortals." Legolas spoke bluntly, but not without gentleness. "You and Aragorn still have time in this world yet though, more time than many mortals of lesser bloodlines could ever hope for." Then the elf prince's fair face took on a mournful tinge. "Do not hurry the passing of days along with anticipation, Arwen, for I am in no hurry for you, Aragorn or any others whom I hold dear to depart this world."

Arwen looked up to Eärendil's star, so beloved by their people. "You find yourself the lone immortal amongst mortals I fear, Thranduilion. The price paid for making yourself a part of this world, no?"

"Now that also sounds like something my father would say. Are you entirely certain you have not been corresponding with him on the sly?"

The seriousness of their conversation dispelled, Arwen laughed. "Since when has your father ever been one to correspond with any beyond his own borders, exempting yourself?"

Legolas shrugged helplessly. "He grows more reclusive with every passing century. I had hoped to draw him out to see our new colony in Ithilien at least once, but even that seems too much to expect. Ah well, I am hardly one to dictate how others ought to live." Then his voice grew serious once more. "Time passes differently for us all, Arwen. Perhaps you shall find the years you still have in this world to be enough yet. And besides, there is still a great deal to look forward to."

"Such as?"

"The ripening of yours and Aragorn's children, for one. Eldarion is a fine young man, and your daughters would each have claimed a place of pride in the ballads of any elvish minstrel. All of Gondor can scarcely wait to see what the future holds for the heirs of Isildur and Imladris."

Arwen's heart warmed at the thought of her son and daughters' futures, so bright and full of promise. "I have always loved autumn, and thought it a season of great beauty."

"Then do not dismay that the first breath of autumn has crept into yours and Aragorn's lives. Enjoy the changing of the colors in all their splendor, and fear not the winter. 'Remember how to live', a wise woman once told me. 'That is the hardest thing to do, but also the very best thing'."

"You are beginning to sound like a wise elder yourself, Little Leaf." Arwen tucked her arm in Legolas's and drew him back toward the Great Hall. "Come, let us linger no longer in the shadows. Elboron will no doubt be looking to avenge himself in the aftermath of your little riddle contest."

"On the contrary, it is I who need avenging! Faramir and Éowyn's son has an uncommonly clever mind, for a mortal."

"And so it seems I must now take back my words regarding your so-called wisdom." Arwen laughed. Together the two children of the elves rejoined the party, once again surrounded by all the love and light of mortality.


	11. The Queen's Counsel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old wounds do not heal overnight; the Great Council is wary of the Haradrims' offer of peace, despite Aragorn's guarded optimism. It will take a little prodding and a gesture of good faith from both a queen and a mother to lead the way forward.

* * *

 

All roads eventually led back to the council. At least, that was how the state of things felt to Aragorn at this point in his life. There had been a time when once he had kept only the council of a few trusted companions, making decisions on the turn of a moment. Now it seemed his every move must be debated on, deliberated over and given an official seal of approval. Briefly Aragorn wondered what would happen if he were to simply saddle Brego and ride for Harad with the dawning.

Far be it from him to rob the Great Council of Gondor of its fun though. Trying not to rub the growing tension between his brows, the king repeated himself for the third time in the past half hour.

"I understand your hesitance to trust the integrity of the Haradrim, Lord Duinhir, truly I do. The fact remains that I personally accepted the chieftains' invitation to visit their settlement in Harmindon. Regardless of whether any choose to accompany me, I at least must make the journey south."

The lord of Blackroot Vale huffed before taking his seat at the council table. Tensions were running high in the Dome of the Sun. The wounds of the War of the Ring may have healed in the four decades since the fall of Sauron, but that did not mean scars did not linger. So many in Gondor had lost kin and kindred spirits to the Haradrim and their war beasts. Aragorn had known that this step forward would not come easily. Still, the council was proving remarkably reluctant to approve a diplomatic mission into Harad. That was to say nothing of the demands the chieftains had made in their terms for peace. South Gondor, once known as Harondor, was an enormous territory, not so easily signed over to the Haradrim on a hope.

"Lord Aragorn, your desire to bury the enmity between west and east is admirable to be sure." Queen Lothíriel was speaking. "But at what cost? Surely the people of Ithilien do not wish to live a mere crossing away from our ancestral enemies, to say nothing of allowing the Haradrim to pass freely through Lebennin and Dol Amroth. What if they were to betray the peace? Dol Amroth and the port at Pelargir would be under attack before Minas Tirith could possibly mount a resistance."

Seated next to his wife, Éomer nodded in solid agreement. The king and queen of Rohan's sentiments appeared to be well supported by many, if the murmur of approval was any indication.

The soft voice of Legolas somehow managed to cut across the dozens of murmuring mortals in the hall. The elf had been quietly listening to the council debate for some time, and Aragorn was relieved to hear his dear friend finally speak.

"Your consideration is appreciated, Lady Lothíriel. However, I daresay as the representative of Ithilien, it is the Lady Éowyn's opinion on the subject that ought to be marked."

"As should yours, Prince Legolas." Éowyn replied with a wry smile in Legolas's direction. "Your colony of elves is as much a part of Ithilien now as we are." When Legolas demurred, she continued. "I think I speak for both my husband and myself when I say that we do not fear the Haradrim. Harondor, as Chief Tufayl pointed out, did at one time belong to Harad, and our two nations managed to share borders without destroying one another. I am sure that we are more than capable of doing so again, and this time as allies. It would be a transition, to be sure, but we can see to the people of Ithilien well enough."

"My people have no quarrel with the Haradrim, beyond their involvement in the War of the Ring." Legolas said. Then with a quick, daring smile he added "We are already surrounded by mortals to the east, west and north. What could one more neighbor to the south hurt?"

A handful of lords and ladies grumbled indignantly at the elf in their midst comparing Gondorians to Haradrim. Aragorn saw Gimli smothering an amused chortle in his beard.

Éomer stood, his emerald green cloak rustling softly. Next to his blue clad queen, the royal pair appeared like the sea beside a grassy shore. It was an apt impression given the rolling hills of Rohan and the seaside towers of Dol Amroth.

"You are all brave and gracious, lords and lady of Ithilien, to be so open to the Haradrim's demands." He addressed his sister and Legolas, as well as Faramir where he stood at Aragorn's shoulder. "Rohan perhaps stands to lose less in this matter than Gondor. That does not in any way lessen our concern for you, our oldest and closest allies. If you are threatened, Rohan will consider that threat as though it were an affront to our own borders. For that reason I urge caution in dealing with the men of the east. As they proved at the Sea of Rhûn, the Haradrim are not above betraying their allies. I am sure the Easterlings were not expecting to be abandoned in their final hour, and yet so it was."

"Your words are true, King Éomer, and I promise you that I do not consider the terms without reservation." Aragorn said. "As to the matter of the invitation to Harmindon though, as far as I am concerned there is nothing to discuss on my part. I gave my word as king that I would come by summer's end, and I will honor that agreement."

Next to the head of the table Faramir looked up from his notes, his quill hanging in midair. "It should be taken into consideration that the Haradrim are notoriously protective of the locations of their settlements. At least, that has been my experience as a ranger. To invite outsiders, much less an enemy king into their midst strikes me as even more of a gesture of good faith than turning on the Easterlings was." Faramir frowned slightly, the wisdom lines around his eyes deepening. "Still, it is very much a leap of faith to venture so far into what has for generations been hostile territory."

Lord Elphir stood, placing his fingertips on the polished tabletop. His might have been mistaken for the smooth, soft hands of a nobleman, were it not for the tell-tale thumb calluses of a pikeman. "I will accompany you to Harad, my king. Given Dol Amroth's proximity to that arid land, I have accumulated some knowledge of their customs over the years. You will have need of a full bodyguard as well, of course."

Seated at Aragorn's right hand, Arwen could practically hear the quiet protests reverberating off her husband. For a man who once traveled hither and yon with nothing but his sword and his wits, a bodyguard was more than a little chafing. She knew exactly how to both soothe Aragorn's frustrations and lend support to his politics however.

"You said that Chief Na'Man extended the invitation not only to yourself, but to your family as well." She could feel the eyes of the entire council on her. Mortals for some reason never ceased to find elvish voices worth listening to. "I suggest you bring Túrien with you to Harmindon."

Scattered gasps when up along the hall. Some of the nobles looked at Arwen as if she had suggested they send the young princess to carry the One Ring into Mordor alone. Completely unruffled, Arwen met Lothíriel's astonished gaze.

"The risk is great enough that King Aragorn should go to Harmindon, into the heart of Haradrim lands. Forgive me Queen Arwen, but you would risk your second daughter as well? For pity's sake, why not Prince Eldarion, or your eldest daughter? Surely Princess Eruthiawen would be better suited for such a..." Lothíriel searched for the best way to put the obvious delicately "... _diplomatic_  endeavor."

Arwen laughed, well aware of the calming effect that it would have on the mortal members of the council. "I know my children well, Queen Lothíriel. Harad will suit Túrien far better than it would Eruthiawen. Or rather, Túrien will suit Harad and its people better than her elder sister would." Turning her piercing grey gaze on Éomer, Arwen added "Trust must be offered on both sides for there to be any hope of peace."

The gauntlet had been thrown. In the face of their queen's willingness to send her own daughter into Harad, how could the council of Gondor do anything other than respect this attempt at reconciliation? Éomer did an admirable job of not squirming under Arwen's scrutiny, formidable king of Rohan that he was. Finally however he relented, frowning into his beard.

"Very well; if Gondor will seek to make peace with Harad, then Rohan will follow your lead. I will accompany you, your daughter and Lord Elphir to Harmindon, Aragorn. In my stead, Queen Lothíriel and my son Prince Elfwine will return to Edoras. The people of Rohan have been too long without their royal house as it is."

Lothíriel nodded in acquiescence, a small smile of relief playing on her shell-pink mouth. No doubt she was happy to be bringing Elfwine home to the Golden Hall with her, Arwen surmised, especially after the young Third Marshal's exploits at the Sea of Rhûn. Remembering her conversation from the parapets of Gondor with Éowyn, Arwen could hardly blame Lothíriel.

With the matter of the visit to Harmindon at least settled, Aragorn rose and dismissed all assembled. Everyone rose with muted sighs of relief; they had been debating for a long time since sunrise. Arwen turned to Aragorn with a small smile. He returned the smile with an added measure of grimacing.

"A cave troll couldn't be any harder to bend to my will than this council." He whispered, as there were still others lingering nearby on their way out into the Sixth Circle.

Arwen chuckled and patted his wrist. "At least the troll would be sweeter tempered." Then she thought for a minute, considering Lothíriel's previous words. "However, you ought to bring Eldarion with you to Harad along with Túrien. If this alliance succeeds, he will need to have a working experience and personal knowledge of the Haradrim to build upon as king someday." She lowered her voice, speaking so that only Aragorn could hear. "And even if it does not, it is best to know one's enemy, both for the sake of strategy and humility."

"I agree, meleth-nin.

The matter settled, Arwen stood from her own place at the council table. "Then all that remains is to deliver the news to Túrien. Would you like to do the honors, or shall I?"

An exaggeratedly loud scratching from Faramir's quill on parchment nearby reminded the king of his steward's presence. They could practically see Faramir raising an eyebrow at the back of Aragorn's royal seat. Aragorn rolled his eyes and sighed.

"It appears I have some matters of state to attend to yet before breakfast. Why don't you tell her? I will just have to hear the retelling of her reaction from you later," he said.

"Very well," Arwen chuckled. On her way out of the Dome of the Sun she paused to call back over her shoulder. "You are lucky I am not a jealous wife, Faramir, else wise I might begrudge your constant stealing of my husband!"

"Will it smooth over my offense if I promise to see that the king eats before midday?" Faramir called back even as he swept a pile of scrolls onto the table before Aragorn. Aragorn openly groaned.

Arwen winked at the Prince of Ithilien. "It might be a start."

* * *

 

She found her daughters at their lessons, even Túrien. The three princesses brightened to see their mother appear in the study doorway, causing their tutor to turn and investigate their distraction. When the old scribe recognized Arwen he immediately released the girls from their morning lecture on Second Age geography. Túrien and Almárëa both left their notebooks and papers in a jumble on the table, while only Eruthiawen took the time to organize her work before going to greet her mother. Arwen smiled inwardly, knowing she had chosen wisely earlier before the council.

"My girls," she said, pausing to return Almárëa's quick embrace. "I have news for you...for Túrien in particular."

"News? What is it Naneth?!" Almárëa interrupted. "Is Túrien getting betrothed?"

Arwen's eyebrows shot up even as Eruthiawen let out a scandalized cry. "Almárëa! You've been listening to the kitchen gossip again! Don't be foolish, no one is getting betrothed." Still, Eruthiawen felt she needed to add a tentative "Are they?"

Shaking her head, Arwen wondered at just what exactly the kitchen staff was gossiping about these days. "Of course not. I promise you, your ada and I would  _never_  betroth any of you to anyone without your complete and heartfelt approval, no matter what the Gondorian custom has been in the past. But that is entirely beside the point which I came here to tell you."

It was hard not to give in to the temptation to draw things out a little longer than necessary for the sake of amusement. All three girls were crowded around, watching her with such large, impatient eyes. Arwen was reminded of when they were much smaller, similarly gathered underfoot to beg for a bedtime story. With a laugh, she laid a hand on Túrien's shoulder, nearly even in height with her own.

Finally Arwen took pity on her daughters though. "The council has approved your ada's visit to Harmindon this summer. He along with King Éomer and Lord Elphir will accept the Haradrim chieftains' invitation. I recommended that Túrien and Eldarion also go, as both a gesture of our good faith and to learn of the Haradrim in person."

Almost instantly Túrien's face lit up with delight. Letting out a very un-princess-like whoop, she jumped for joy, her excitement threatening to shake her thick black hair free of its pins.

"You mean it Naneth?! I'm to go to Harad?"

Arwen laughed. Túrien's happiness at the news was everything she had expected it to be. "Yes, you and Eldarion both." She sobered then, loathe to rein in her daughter but needing to say more. "Túrien, promise me that you will exercise caution. The Haradrim have been enemies of Gondor for centuries, and there are no doubt some there who will not agree with their chieftains' desire to make peace. As tempting as it may be, you must not stray far from your ada's side. Do I have your word?"

"I..." Túrien hesitated, no doubt remembering how Aragorn had lectured her not two weeks past on making promises she did not expect to keep.

"Túrien." Arwen's voice held no reproach, only gentle warning. "If I cannot have your word that you will act wisely and safely while in Harad, then I will not hesitate to take back my offer that you go on this journey."

Eruthiawen and Almárëa hung back and held their tongues as they watched their sister deliberate. Asking Túrien to exercise caution was like asking a storm to be still, and they all knew it. Still, Arwen knew her middle daughter, and that was why she needed this from her.

Finally Túrien nodded. "I promise, Naneth. I will be careful."

"Good." Now Arwen could smile again. "Then I suggest you begin packing your things; it will be a long ride to Harmindon."

Túrien's glee could be heard all the way down the hall as she ran off to her room. Almárëa wasn't far behind, already trying to extract promises of souvenirs from that strange and distant land. Eruthiawen lingered behind in the study, watching her sisters disappear at her mother's side.

"She will surely be alright," Eruthiawen said. "From what Eldarion has told us of the Haradrim chieftains, they sound like honorable men in their own way. No doubt they will have their own measures put in place to protect their guests."

Arwen let out a small huff that might have been a laugh. She looked fondly at her eldest daughter. Now doubt Eruthiawen would have conducted herself in a manner befitting a princess of Gondor if she had gone to Harmindon with Aragorn and the others. Somehow Arwen suspected that a princess of Gondor was not what the people of Harad needed nor wanted to see from their oft-maligned neighbors. Taking Eruthiawen's offered hand, she shook her head.

"I am reassured enough that Túrien is ready for Harad. The question is whether or not Harad is ready for Túrien..."


	12. Coming of Age

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shortly after Eldarion's 'official' birthday celebration, Legolas and Gimli decide to take the boys out for a night on the town.

 

* * *

 

Eldarion wasn’t sure which he was more excited by; that Legolas and Gimli had proposed such an outing in celebration of his coming-of-age birthday, or that his mother and father had actually agreed to it. When their ‘uncles’ had brought the suggestion to Aragorn and Arwen there had been bemused smiles and raised eyebrows all around. Eldarion could have reached out and grabbed a handful of the envy rolling off of Túrien in waves. When at last Aragorn had given his permission, a whoop of glee had come dangerously close to escaping Eldarion’s chest.

                It wasn’t that he’d never had a drink before; far from it in fact. In the past though, a glass of wine at the end of a banquet, stealthily poured behind his mother’s obliging back or a half-choked gulp of mead with Elboron and the squires behind the stables had been about the extent of it. Alcohol wasn’t necessarily forbidden in their household. It was just that their parents viewed drink as an occasional indulgence for those wise enough to keep their heads around it, rather than a recreational pursuit. That was why, at five-and-twenty years of age and now by the laws of Gondor, a man, Eldarion had never once in his life been drunk before. That was also why Legolas and Gimli explicitly asking permission to take him and his friends out for a, to quote the dwarf directly, “proper sousing” was so exciting.

                Which brought them to here and now, on their way down to the fourth level of Minas Tirith; well entrenched into the streets and districts frequented by the everyday folk of the White City. To Elboron’s vocal surprise and Elfwine’s protesting, they had passed over several establishments in the upper levels. Eldarion had expected they would surely stop at The Lone Beacon, a wine-shop of refinement and beauty marked by a large brazier atop its portico and fragrant gardens filled with mingling nobility quaffing goblets of southern vineyards. Legolas hadn’t so much as slowed his long, fluid gait as they passed. Nor did the elf linger at the doorway of The Cresting Wave, a fine lounge where minstrels and their wealthy patrons were inclined to gather, listening to stringed instruments and sipping bright liqueurs.

Rather than stopping at any of the high class parlors boasted by the upper levels, Legolas seemed content to let Gimli lead the way further and further down into the city. The dwarf’s pace was slow compared to the rest of them, and slower even now that he leant heavily on a cane of pale ash wood. That Gimli was walking at all after his injuries at the Sea of Rhûn was a blessing, a blessing which everyone was silently grateful for. It had been almost a month since that fateful day though, and the mood was high amongst the group trailing behind their chaperones.

“I’m not sure what I’m looking forward to most,” Elfwine was saying, already taking long pulls at the hip flask of malt liquor he had brought. “Watching you two fall into your cups for the first time, or getting there myself.” His flask gave an ominously empty sounding slosh and the young Third Marshal wrinkled his nose. “The grog you Gondorians make isn’t any fit match for the golden mead overflowing the cups in Edoras, but it’s been too long and I’ll happily take what I can get at this point.”

Eldarion laughed. “I still call it unfair that you’ve been drinking freely with your father and the other Riders since your twentieth. Then again, that’s Rohan in general for you.”

“Got something smart to say about my homeland, princeling?”

As always, Elboron was at the ready with a diplomatic interruption. “We just admire the liberal ways of the horselords is all, cousin. After all, they made  _you_  Third Marshal, did they not?”

Mischief glinted flintily in the lamplight reflected by Elfwine’s dark green eyes. “Oho! Remind me to rouse you extra early in the morn, Elboron. Your sharp wit needs a little dulling methinks!”

“Or alternately I could come by and rouse all of you before the dawn, just so you can get to work on your suffering early.” The cheeky smile was audible in Legolas’ words even as he walked in front of them in the street. “Eldarion, your adar always claimed that an early morning dip in the river was the perfect cure for ‘self-inflicted wounds’.”

“Hmmmm....” Eldarion considered the pair in front of him. “I have a better idea; you and Gimli ought to have a re-match on your old contest. You remember, the drinking game Gimli challenged you to after The Battle of Helms Deep? Only this time, to be fair to Gimli’s old age, you ought to drink two flagons for every one of his, Legolas.”

Moving surprisingly nimbly despite his bad leg, Gimli came to an abrupt halt and pivoted on his cane, rounding to poke Eldarion hard in the gut. The old dwarf’s beady eyes glowered up at him from beneath stormy brows.

“Now listen here, pup! I may have seen a couple hundred winters to your five-and-twenty, but I can still drink any son of Man under a table. Especially fuzz-faced boys like you lot!” Gimli jabbed his cane toward Elfwine and Elboron where they stood snickering. Elfwine’s mirth immediately lessened, and his hand shot self-consciously to his ever-thickening honey blonde stubble. Gimli raised an eyebrow, his own voluminous red-grey beard wobbling as his jaw worked.  “Alright... less talk, more walk. We’re almost to the place.”

                Much to everyone’s surprise, Gimli and Legolas led them all the way to the gates between the fourth and fifth levels. There, looming over a metallurgist on one side and a tannery on the other was The Splintered Shield. A popular ale-hall that catered chiefly to soldiers, The Shield was a large, boxy stone building built from the same characteristically white stone as the rest of Minas Tirith. Grand pillars hung with the banners of Gondor framed an entryway wide enough that a line of five horses walking abreast could have entered with ease. From inside the steady rumble of voices reached them on a tidal wave of fiddles and drums, often punctuated with a guffaw or a shriek of laugh. It was not the sort of place one would expect to find royalty. Eldarion could not have been more excited to get inside.

                Elfwine seemed to be of a similar mind. “Now  _that_  is what I call a proper tavern!” he exclaimed, downing the last of his flask in one gulp. The malt hardly seemed to have touched him, apart from the slightest rosy blush in his cheeks. “I’ll bet my best tack that half of our riders are probably in there already.”

                A terribly written and even more poorly performed song comparing a maiden’s hair to horses’ tails reached them, and Elboron groaned. “They’re likely the only ones to be found in The Splintered Shield by now, if they’ve been singing songs of such taste all evening.”

                Contrary to Elboron’s ominous complaint, the ale-hall was actually filled nearly to capacity. Candelabras so heavily laden with wax that it threatened to drip on the heads of the patrons below cast pools of light on the ceiling, and an enormous half-circle hearth against the far wall did the same for the floor. Almost every table was full. Although the crowd was largely Gondorian, as proudly demonstrated by the white trees stitched onto the men’s tunics, Elfwine’s best tack was also his to keep; Rohirrim could be seen every which way they looked. The singer was still regaling everyone with his love song, and unsurprisingly none of the serving maids seemed interested in refilling the goblets at that particular table any time soon. His friends, already in their cups as they were, hardly seemed to care. They cheered him on in his song, joining in on the chorus as it came around with gusto. When the riders butchered a particularly awful stanza Legolas joined Elboron and Eldarion in their wincing.

                “You know, you only earn the right to be a critic if you can stand up and do better” said Elfwine, elbowing his way at the front of their group to one of the few empty tables against the wall. He smirked meaningfully at Eldarion.

                “Me?” Eldarion held up his hands, warding off Elfwine’s implied suggestion. “Oh no, I haven’t even had anything to drink yet!”

                “We can fix that right quick, lad.” Gimli was already waving his cane in the air, trying to catch the attention of the nearest server. “Aye, lassie! Drinks for the birthday boy, and make it double, eh?”

                The girl, a fetching young thing with bright pink cheeks and a headful of thick cinnamon hair gawked at their party for a moment. Eldarion could hardly fault her. After all, they did look rather like the opening line of an odd joke.  _An elf, a dwarf and three princes walk into a bar..._ She recovered herself quickly enough though, and when swishing away into the throng in a whirl of skirts and aprons.

                When she returned, Eldarion had to marvel at just how impressive the balancing skills of serving maids were. She carried two earthenware pitchers of ale in each arm, a stack of mugs in one hand and a bowl of nuts in the other. Elfwine sent her back to behind the bar with an order for a flagon of mead and a charming wink. The former she brought with a jar of honey for sweetening to taste, which she sweetened even further with a long-lashed wink of her own.

                “What are you going to do the day you have to settle down once and for all with a queen, Elfwine?” Eldarion laughed. “If she’s anything like your lady mother, you can be sure your days of freely charming will be over.”

                Elfwine grinned and shrugged, already hard at work on his mead. “If my wife is anything like my mother, I’ll be happy to save all my charm for her and her alone.”

                “Spoken like a true son of Rohan,” observed Legolas. “As I recall, in his time Éomer was more than a little popular with the women of the Westfold. And yet, Éowyn could not have wished for a more devoted brother nor [Lothíriel](http://lotr.wikia.com/wiki/Loth%C3%ADriel) a more faithful husband.”

                A mention of his uncle in the past tense had Elboron leaning across the table intently. “Oh, please tell us stories of our fathers in their youths! I especially want to hear more about Uncle Éomer and his popularity with the women, as you put it.”

                “Ughhhh, Elboron no!” Elfwine covered his face with his hands. “That is just about the  _last_ thing I want to hear more about tonight.”

                Gimli guffawed, slapping the table and making their mugs rattle. “Yer in luck, Elfwine. As much as this yarn-spinner likes to pretend he’s been around to see and tell of everything, Éomer was already well past his younger days when we met him on the plains of Rohan. Same goes for you, Elboron. ‘Course, your old man was probably the responsible-to-a-fault sort even when he was a lad, to say nothing of after he and Éowyn clapped eyes on each other!”  

                Seeing how Elfwine and Elboron sagged in mutual relief and disappointment that there would be no scandalous stories involving their fathers divulged that night, Gimli grinned evilly through his beard at Eldarion. “Now your father, laddie, is a different story. Let’s have some stories from Fornost, Legolas!”

                “Happy to deliver, mellon-nin,”

Legolas’ fair face split in the silent laugh of one who has seen strange things and never grown tired of the retelling. Eldarion groaned aloud and dove back into his flagon of ale. As many stories as he had heard about his father’s youth, somehow he suspected he might hear a few more tonight.

* * *

 

                Three hours and who knew how many cups of ale, mead, and wine later, and Eldarion was spinning. At least, that’s what it felt like he was doing. Either that or the world had completely broken free of its moorings and was whirling on an axis with him at its center. It hardly mattered regardless. The heir to the throne of Gondor thought he’d never been more completely and utterly free.

                He wandered with abandon around The Splintered Shield, falling in with this group and then the next. Everywhere Eldarion went it seemed he was greeted with smiling faces and open arms. Riders of Rohan goaded him to sing, and he did so with relish, even getting up to stand unsteadily atop a table at one point. Someone knocked the table and he nearly fell, but out of nowhere Elfwine was there to steady him. The prince of Rohan laughed like everything and everyone was funny, even when Eldarion asked him where the others were. Elfwine’s leather doublet hung open over his tunic, strings long since come undone and forgotten. Eldarion thought Elfwine’s hair, flying about his head in a glorious tangle, well suited the golden mead which he was drinking.

                 _Perhaps he’s drunk so much mead that its come through to his hair,_ Eldarion thought giddily. He decided he needed another dark ale to match his own.

                Soft fingers brushed his, and as if by magic the wished-for mug of ale appeared in his hand. The pretty barmaid with the bright cheeks winked at him. Through the rosy haze which hung before Eldarion’s eyes, he fancied her wink was less cheeky than it had been for Elfwine and more sultry. Then just as suddenly as she had come she was gone. Eldarion decided he must drink down his ale as quickly as possible so that he could call her back for another.

                Everything seemed askew and oddly forgettable for another stretch of time; Eldarion had no idea how long. The next thing he remembered was roaring and cheering in a circle, at the center of which sat Legolas and Gimli. The two faced one another at a short table, both with a stack of empty shot-glasses to one side. Both seemed oblivious to the crowd around them. Instead the odd pair stared one another down as they down one shot after the other. Eldarion felt his stomach lurch uncomfortably, and he decided he didn’t need anything more to drink. Finding nowhere nearby to put his cup, he did the next most logical thing and simply held it up in the air above his head. Sure enough someone obliged and took it from him, leaving Eldarion to clap and egg Legolas and Gimli on freely.

                “Put him under the table!”

                “C’mon elf, I thought you were famous for holding your liquor?!”

                “Another round, another!”

                Gimli, too busy gulping down the latest glass, waved his cane in the air instead. His supporters in the crowd roared fit to shake the floor when the old dwarf stuck out his tongue and waggled it at Legolas. Legolas simply raised an eyebrow and emptied two in quick succession. Eldarion noticed two of the serving girls hovering very close behind Legolas, to refill his drinks or hoping to ‘accidentally’ brush up against his arm, who knew? Eldarion suspected the latter over the former, if their giggling and flattering words of praise directed at the elf were any clue.

                “Now we know what Elboron has to deal with all the time, eh?” Elfwine hollered in Eldarion’s ear so loudly that Eldarion nearly fell over.

                “Where ish Elboron anyway?” Eldarion yelled back, less than eloquently. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, and somehow parched dry despite the copious amounts he’d been drinking all night.

                Elfwine shrugged. “I thought he was with you?” Someone jostled him from behind, sloshing a little bit of mead onto Elfwine’s jerkin. It hardly looked like the first stain of the evening though, and Elfwine paid it no mind.

                “Back room. Ask the seating hostess.”

                Eldarion and Elfwine gawped in surprise when Legolas not only heard but also answered their questions over the din of the cheering crowd. He toasted Eldarion with a rather smug looking grin before tossing his latest shotglass back. Gimli shouted something unintelligible at him, and Legolas replied in what sounded uncannily like the dwarvish tongue. Even though nobody in The Splintered Shield could possibly understand the exchange, everyone guffawed with laughter all the same.

                They found Elboron snoring contentedly on a pile of folded tablecloths in the pantry beside the bar. His blonde hair was thoroughly mussed over his eyes, making a rather convenient sleeping mask. He lay with one lanky long leg draped over a sack of apples, the other jutted askance toward the door. Eldarion couldn’t be sure in the gloom, but he thought Elboron might have been drooling. The Prince of Ithilien’s son still looked enormously comfortable, and suddenly Eldarion was mightily tempted to curl up beside him on the floor.

                “Apparently the featherweight blood of Gondor runs thicker than wine,” Elfwine commented, sounding beyond amused.

                “I’m still on my feet!” protested Eldarion.

                Elfwine did not look impressed. “You’re also half an elf. You’ve put away enough to kill most first-timers already tonight, in case you didn’t notice.”

                “Have I?”

                That explained why Eldarion suddenly felt so bleary. When he made to try to rouse Elboron, he wobbled and ended up practically landing on his sleeping friend. Elboron gave a started grunt, followed by something that sounded suspiciously like a heave.

                “ _Huuughh...._ whoosh ‘dat?!” he mumbled.

                “It’s me, you dolt.” Eldarion crawled to his hands and knees, trying to get a grip on Elboron’s shoulders. “C’mon, on your feet. You can’t exactly sleep here all night.”

                “N’ why can’t I?”

                “Because your mother would be out for blood in the morning, and I frankly have no interest in being on Aunt Éowyn’s bad side.” Elfwine came to Eldarion’s aid, and together they managed to get Elboron up and propped between the two of them.

                “Heh...” Eldarion couldn’t help but laugh.

                “What?” asked Elfwine.

                “Nothing. It’s just that...well...last time it was Elboron and I carrying you like this, Elfwine.”

                Elfwine rolled his eyes good-naturedly as he elbowed open the pantry door. Elboron whimpered at the main room’s brightness, turning away and trying to borrow his face into Eldarion’s shoulder. Eldarion decided to let him, lest Elboron actually be sick this time.

                “All that means is that next time it’ll be your turn, princeling. Pray to the Valar that it’s ‘cause you're drunk and not stepped on by a-”

                “The Valar?” They were interrupted by the melodious and completely sober sounding tones of Legolas. “Why Éomerion, how very elvish of you indeed.”

                Legolas and Gimli stood waiting for them at the edge of the raucous crowd filling The Splintered Shield. To Eldarion’s bewilderment, both he and Gimli looked completely present and in one piece.

                “But...you....how?!?” Eldarion stammered.

                With a chortle, Gimli elbowed Legolas in the hip. “We had a little arrangement with the lassies at the bar. Figured we could let the folks have their show, and get away with it too!” He tossed the empty shot-glass he had held in his fist toward Eldarion. “Have a sniff of that there ‘brandy’.”

                A quick whiff revealed a heady bouquet of orchards, but no alcohol whatsoever. “Apple cider?” Eldarion asked, bemused.

                “Aye, fresh from the cask and untouched all summer!” Gimli snorted with mirth. “Everyone here’s too far gone to spot the difference. We drank ‘til they begged us to stop, so afraid were they ‘for our health’!”

                “You know that’s cheating, right?” Elfwine asked. Elboron had fallen back to sleep, and he and Eldarion had to readjust their grip on his arms before he slid down between them.

                “Pah! Let a pair of old timers bend the rules every now and again; Mahal knows I wasn’t about to have a repeat of the morning after our last real contest!”

                “Does that mean you freely admit that an elf can drink a dwarf under the table any day, my old friend?” inquired Legolas slyly.

                Gimli huffed, thumping the butt of his cane on the floor of the ale-house, sticky with drink. “I happen to have grown out of such childish posturing and gained a mite of poise and maturity. Have you?”

                Legolas’ only answer was to laugh aloud, the musical sound making one of the bar maids drop a glass behind the counter. Seeing that Eldarion was scarcely able to walk a straight line himself, Legolas ducked under Elboron’s limp arm to take his place. Gimli paid their tab to the Splintered Shield, completely refusing to tell Eldarion how much the price of their evening out had been.

                “Consider it a late birthday present, lad. You can buy next time, now that you’re a man grown,” he said. Eldarion was still seeing the world through a fuzzy haze, but he thought he saw a glimmer of moisture at the corner of the old dwarf’s eye when Gimli looked up at the tall young prince before him.

                With Gimli setting the pace and leading the way, the five of them began their long, slow journey back up through the levels of Minas Tirith to the citadel. The normally smooth white streets felt uneven beneath Eldarion’s feet, and he wobbled unsteadily ahead of Elfwine, Legolas and Elboron. The stars were out though, and even though they wheeled overhead Eldarion though they had never looked so beautiful. They almost seemed to dance on the night sky, like a great gathering of silver fireflies all dressed in their glittering best. Or perhaps like reflected glimmers of sunlight on the surface of a quiet pool; either way, Eldarion’s gaze kept wandering back up to the sky, making walking all the more difficult.

                Without provocation, Elfwine began to sing. It was slightly off-key and sloppy, but his voice was better than the singer they had heard when they first came to The Splintered Shield.

_Pretty women, slow horses and wine_

_Have made me an old man ahead of my time_

_My hair once gold now silver does shine_

_On account of pretty women, slow horses and wine_

  

                As if roused by Elfwine’s throaty singing, Elboron stirred and lifted his head. He gave Eldarion a lopsided, half-focused grin, and then joined in.

_O I once met a maid with soft black hair_

_But to ask her to dance, I did not dare..._

 

                Teasing Elboron and laughing, one by one they all fell in with his song. Gimli embellished a line or two with rhymes about ‘ _fair lasses with thick glossy beards’_ , making the boys groan aloud. The song grew stranger and sillier and better with every wobbly step they took, all the way home through the starlit White City. 


	13. An Unknown Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last night's revelry comes back for revenge on our poor princes, and unfortunately for them Eruthiawen is not above having some fun at their expense.   
> Meanwhile, Arwen helps Turien to pack for the upcoming journey to Harad.

“Why Little Brother, you look unwell! Shall I send for a healer, or perhaps even Adar?”

                Eldarion groaned aloud, nearly face-down in his untouched bowl of sliced pears. Elboron and Elfwine fared little better; Elboron had gone white at the mere mention of breakfast that morning, and Elfwine avoided sunlight as if he were a cave-bred goblin. That the three of them were up and even minimally presentable before midday felt like a minor achievement in and of itself. There was no hiding the dark circles beneath their eyes and their queasy stomachs from Eruthiawen though.

                “You know very well what ails us, Eruthia,” mumbled Eldarion.

                Eruthiawen laughed, the flute-like sound drawing a pained combination of a smile and a grimace from Elboron. Unlike the three dishevelled princes, Eruthiawen could not have been more fresh and bright on a warm summer morning. She herself had already tucked in to a hearty breakfast of tea-boiled eggs, fruit and cream.  Even just the sight of his sister enjoying her meal had been enough to put Eldarion off his pears.

“That I do, which is why I myself do not share Túrien’s dismay at not having joined you gentlemen last night. I take it the ‘sousing’ , as Gimli put it, was a complete success then?”

“It wasn’t quite a feast in the Golden Hall,” said Elfwine, taking a cautious sip of water. “But the memory of Eldarion singing from table tops will be one to cherish for years to come. That and Elboron passing out in a broom closet!”

“Elfwine!” Elboron’s wan cheeks visibly flushed. “Did you not say that what happens in the tavern stays in the tavern?”

The voice of Éowyn, layered with poorly concealed mirth cut in from the dining room door. “It does, at least until the revelers come wandering home to their wives and tell all.”

Elfwine visibly perked, interest at least partially erasing some of the tiredness from him. “What’s this? You mean to say, Aunt, that even Gondor’s most studious and dutiful Steward has some tales from the tankard?”

After being denied any scandalous stories concerning King Éomer and Lord Faramir the night before, their sons were only too hopeful to learn from Éowyn. Eldarion, having heard more than enough to keep him chuckling about his father’s youth for a year, also straightened up in his seat with keen ears. As an afterthought, he pushed his bowl of pears to the side. When Eruthiawen raised her eyebrows, he rolled his eyes in permission. She snagged the rim of the bowl with a fork and drew it into her place at the table. Fresh fruit never went to waste when Eruthiawen was present.

“Every married man has had his stag party,” Éowyn was saying coyly. “As if your father would let his future brother-in-law wed a Shieldmaiden of Rohan without having been _thoroughly_ welcomed by the Rohirrim, Elfwine.”

“And Father told you all about it afterwards?” asked Elboron, eyes wide with delighted disbelief.

“Oh yes, every detail. He was feeling so contrite about all the mischief that Éomer had gotten him into that he could not rest, even while fall-down drunk, until he had unburdened every inch of his conscience to me. When he finally awoke the next day and remembered, I think he feared that I might not still wish to marry him!”

“But you did, didn’t you?” Eldarion could scarcely imagine what kind of trouble Éomer could have gotten Faramir into that would threaten his marriage to Éowyn.

Éowyn laughed. “Oh yes! Do not look so worried, Elboron. It was entirely the most endearing thing I had ever beheld, to see how worked up your father became over such small infractions as talking up the barmaid or losing track of his doublet pin. Ah, you would think he had lost my best horse, so apologetic he was!” A wicked gleam came into Éowyn’s eye as she came to rest a hand on her son’s golden head. “It would taste of a lie to say that I did not take some small advantage of Faramir’s remorse in the following days; my wish was practically his command from that point onward when it came to planning our wedding. I think he was mostly just grateful that I had not scorned him as a drunkard after his single night out with the Rohirrim!”

Gales of laughter broke out around the table. A chorus of birds sitting on the window ledges joined in on the merriment, and their chirruping voices just about brought Eldarion to tears when it re-awoke his headache with a vengeance. Groaning, he was very tempted to rudely stick his fingers in his sensitive ears.

Rising from her chair, Eruthiawen composed herself even though mirth still shone from her grey eyes. “I think I had best go and help Mother get Túrien packed for Harad, before I hear something that I might wish I could forget. But first...”

Before Eldarion and the others could move to prevent it, Eruthiawen had crossed the dining room and flung open the shutters, pouring bright, unfiltered sunlight into the room. All three boys shrank away with pained cries, throwing up their hands in front of their faces. Éowyn clucked her tongue admonishingly even as she rubbed Elboron’s hunched shoulders.

“The day had to be faced sooner rather than later I’m afraid. Especially for you, Elfwine; as I recall, Éomer intended for you and Queen Lothíriel to depart for Rohan this afternoon, did he not?”

“Argh...” was all that came out of Elfwine, who dropped his forehead onto the tabletop with a dull _thud_.

 

**OoOoO**

Eruthiawen found Túrien and their mother in the midst of various piles of sorted clothing, spread across the bed and most of the furniture in Túrien’s room. Almárëa perched at the foot of the bed, still in her nightdress and slippers with hair unbound. Túrien for once wasn’t putting up a fuss about being made to try things on. In fact, she dipped out from behind the dressing screen in the corner with arms open, ready to be inspected to the queen’s satisfaction.

Arwen made a hum of approval at the wine-red suede riding overcoat which Túrien was modelling. “Yes, that fits you nicely Túrien. It might be somewhat too warm for Harad’s late summer days, but nights in the south I’m told can be quite cool. You will wear it if need be?”

“Eldarion said that the Haradrim favor the color red, so it will serve two purposes to suit me,” replied Túrien, lifting one arm to test the stitching. When it flexed comfortably she nodded.

“Good, then in that case we shall add it to your pack.”

“Naneth,” said Almárëa, scooting forward across the quilt to finger a new pair of gloves awaiting packing covetously. “When will I be able to see Harad? I want to go with Ada too.”

“Ah _iel dithen_ (little daughter), your time will come. If this visit to Harmindon and the meeting with the chieftains goes well, there may yet be many years ahead in which you may come to know the Haradrim as friends and allies of Gondor. Perhaps Harondor shall once again become the home of the desert tribes, and Mûmakil shall be seen bearing goods for trade throughout Ithilien to the port at Pelargir. What would you think of that?”

Almárëa’s eyes had grown wide with wonder at the thought of Oliphants passing to and fro only days from Minas Tirith. If Eruthiawen thought that perhaps Mûmakil were less cause for excitement as they were cause for trepidation, she said nothing to dampen her youngest sister’s awe. Besides, she well knew what a true allegiance with the Haradrim could mean for peace in the years to come, and what such an achievement meant to their father. Eruthiawen could close her eyes and remember effortlessly the map of scars etched across Aragorn’s hands; tribute to a hard life lived in the shadow of war. And so she kept her own private misgivings about the beasts of the south and their desert-hardened masters to herself.

“Túrien, I have a gift for you.” Arwen said, reaching out to her middle daughter and drawing her closer. “It will bring me great joy if you need never use it while on your journey. Even so, I know that you have been spending your mornings in the training yards with Lady Éowyn on the sly, and thus know how to handle a blade with respect.”

  Túrien opened her mouth, and then closed it, seemingly not knowing how to respond. That their father had taught her to how to shoot with bows and arrows was common knowledge, if something of a source of bemused disapproval among the nobility of Minas Tirith. Although Eruthiawen had known Túrien’s secret, no doubt Túrien thought that she was hiding her early morning sessions with the White Lady of Ithilien very cleverly. When the startled look on Túrien’s face said as much, Arwen laughed softly and shook her head.

“Éowyn came to Aragorn and I asking our permission from the very first moment you ever approached her about swordplay, iel-nin. Beware, my children...” Arwen smirked at them lovingly “...for a mother knows everything, always. Which is why I also know from Éowyn that you can be trusted to carry this at your side.”

Lifting several stacks of clothing off the sofa revealed a sheathed sword lying hidden beneath. The blade was clearly elvish in make, with a sabre-like width and curved hilt. Gold scrollwork embossed the leather handle as well as the sheath, curving in beautiful patterns of leaves and vines. Túrien gasped aloud when Arwen took up the sword and held it out toward her.

“Come. Read the runes on the blade.”

Slowly, as if not quite believing that she was being entrusted with such a gift, Túrien took the sword. When she drew it back halfway from the sheath, its blade was so flawless and polished that she saw her own reflection in it. With a voice that almost trembled, Túrien read the flowing Tengwar runes aloud.

_"Aen estar Hadhafang i chathol hen, thand arod dan i thang an i arwen."_

 "This blade is called Hadhafang, a noble defense against the enemy throng for a noble lady," repeated Eruthiawen reverently. “The sword of Princess Idril of Gondolin, handed down through our family all the way to Grandfather Elrond.”

“Naneth...you mean it?” Túrien asked, and to Eruthiawen’s shock there were actually tears in her sister’s stormy blue eyes. “I can wear this?”

Arwen laid her hands over top of Túrien’s on Hadhafang’s hilt and sheath. The queen looked a little misty eyed herself. “You are a daughter of elf-kind. Although it may be the custom of Men for women not to bear arms, I will not send you away into strange lands undefended when both your father and your brother carry swords on their belts. I know you will bear this blade wisely, as those in your bloodline did before you. And that means knowing not only when to draw your sword, but when to leave it sheathed.” Arwen squeezed Túrien’s hands before releasing them, leaving the ancestral blade in her daughter’s keeping.  

 The previously poignant moment was broken when Almárëa came sliding off the bed to rush to Túrien’s side.  Almárëa was sensible enough not to touch the sword, but that did not stop her from wanting to see it.

“It’s so beautiful! Oh! Now I truly do feel left out, knowing that Ada is getting ready to leave again, and this time taking both Eldarion _and_ Túrien away as well.” Almárëa pouted out her pink lower lip in a way that most children stopped doing when they were years younger than she. It still had the desired effect though; Túrien was quick to swoop in to the rescue.

“Don’t worry Almárëa, we will return, and we’ll bring back all kinds of tales and things from Harad to share with you. And, if all goes well, I promise that the next time we go I’ll take you there myself, and introduce you to a real live Mûmakil!”

The scenario of little Almárëa coming face-to-face with a Mûmakil was not one that Eruthiawen thought ought to be encouraged in any context. A mortified glance exchanged with their mother confirmed that Arwen was thinking something along similar lines. There was no point in refuting Túrien’s well-intentioned promises yet though, not when such a future might not even be realized. For now, they could only venture forward into the unknown with open minds and open hearts, and hope that the Haradrim were willing to do the same. Arwen still could not help but wonder though if she had made a wise choice as she watched Túrien belt Hadhafang around her waist.

 

**OoOoO**

 

That afternoon the ruling families of Gondor and Rohan gathered in the courtyard before the city gates to bid farewell to one another. Although Elfwine was not abundantly pleased to be sent home while Eldarion joined their fathers in the journey to Harmindon, he smiled and was of good cheer as he said his goodbyes all the same. Elboron was also not going, instead to remain in Minas Tirith with Faramir and Éowyn, and that apparently went far toward taking the sting out of the matter. Eldarion and Elboron embraced Elfwine one after the other, feeling a thrice-renewed sense of kinship toward one another after their shared experiences at the Sea of _Rhûn_ _and the previous night at The Splintered Shield._

“Try not to be sick to your stomach, at least until you’re beyond the White City’s streets!” Eldarion teased Elfwine in an effort to pretend for just a few minutes more than they were not actually parting.

Elfwine snorted, gently cuffing the back of Eldarion’s head and setting his dark hair on end. “Unlike you, I happen to have some experience under my belt. I’ve been ready to ride since before you and Elboron managed to walk a straight line today.” Then the prince of Rohan caught Eldarion by the back of the neck and pressed their foreheads together. “Good luck in Harad. I will tell Túrien to be sure to look after you, aye?”

“Be careful Elfwine, lest your sarcasm reach her ears and it becomes you who is in need of looking after,” chuckled Eldarion. “Ride well, my brother.”

“And you, brother. Now, come here Elboron, so I can pinch your cheeks and tousle your hair just like I always used to do for my little cousin.”

Elboron rolled his eyes in a long-suffering manner, but walked straight into Elfwine’s embrace regardless. “When last I looked, I do believe I was and still am older than you, Elfwine.”

“Pah, age is but a number! I’ll be watching your back until the day I die.”

After the boys were finished saying their goodbyes, they were joined by Eruthiawen, Túrien, Almárëa, and all of their mothers and fathers, as well as Legolas and Gimli. Neither Legolas nor Gimli were accompanying the party to Harad either, having been too long away from their respective peoples and their duties as leaders. Gimli was to return to Rohan and the Glittering Caves at Helms Deep, traveling part of the way back from Gondor with Elfwine and Lothíriel’s party. A pony awaited Gimli amongst the horses of the Rohirrim, and with some misgivings Aragon had consented that the dwarf was sufficiently healed enough to ride at least.

“Travel safely, my heart, and send a raven to Minas Tirith with news of your arrival when you and Elfwine make it back to Edoras,” Éomer instructed Lothíriel.

Lothíriel bowed her head to her husband within the hood of her blue and gold-trimmed cloak. “I will do so, and I expect a missive from you as well once you return from Harad. Keep your wits about you, Éomer. The Haradrim are a crafty people, and not easily understood at a glance.”

The king and queen of Rohan embraced, and Éomer kissed his wife’s brow before turning to his son. “You see your mother safely home, Elfwine. I trust that the Riddermark will be well cared for in my absence.”

“Yes Father. We’ll look to your coming from the Golden Hall.”

“Good. Before the autumn solstice you’ll see my banner upon the eastern horizon, I promise.”

Éomer clasped Elfwine’s wrist, likewise gripping the backs of one another’s heads as Elfwine had done with Eldarion before parting. Éomer embraced Éowyn and delivered his usual warnings on his sister’s behalf to Faramir, who took it in stride as long-standing tradition despite their having been wed for nearly two-and-a-half decades.

    “It has been entirely too long between visits, and the pleasure has been ours to host you in Minas Tirith, Queen Lothíriel and Prince Elfwine,” said Aragorn, his official tone a warning that the moment of parting was quickly drawing upon them. “Perhaps we shall have to deliver King Éomer to you in Edoras personally upon our return.”

“The lords and ladies of Gondor are always welcome in Meduseld, Your Grace. Your hospitality has been above compare, and we have truly enjoyed every moment spent this summer in the White City,” replied Lothíriel.

“Then until we meet again, fair roads and safe travels my friends.”

With the Rohirrim awaiting them outside on the fields of Pelennor, Elfwine and Lothíriel turned to the gates and urged their horses onward. Legolas lifted a hand in farewell, which Gimli returned before likewise putting a knee to his pony’s side and heading out. Eldarion and Elboron could not help but feel, even though he had been absent for so long prior to that summer, there was a hole in their trio where Elfwine rightly belonged. The prince of Rohan had his duties awaiting him at home though, just as Eldarion and Túrien had a journey into the unknown awaiting them in Harad.

 

**OoOoO**


	14. At a Woman's Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Road trip to Harad!  
> Essentially, Aragorn is driving, Éomer has shotgun, and both are constantly having to reach back into the backseat to break up Eldarion and Túrien...  
> Ah, sibling rivalry/love.

 

* * *

Only a matter of days after saying goodbye to Elfwine and the party from Rohan, it was Eldarion and Túrien's turn to depart Minas Tirith. Because of the importance of this journey to Harad, and much to Aragorn's chagrin, preparing the delegation to set out was a highly ordered affair. The lords and ladies of Gondor assembled in the Great Citadel atop the city to formally send off the kings and their company. Black and white banners were everywhere to be seen. Aragorn would have much preferred to leave quietly through one of the city's minor gates to avoid all this. Leave it Faramir to have arisen even earlier than his lord that morning to prevent just such a thing.

When at last the lord of Pinnath Gelin finished delivering his speech of well-wishes for the negotiations (every word of which Aragorn found incredibly ironic given how vocally Pinnath Gelin had opposed treating with the Haradrim at earlier councils), there remained only personal farewells to be said before taking their leave. One wondered how well a husband could truly farewell his wife and children before the eyes of all of Gondor's nobility though. That was why Aragorn, Eldarion and Túrien had said their real goodbyes to Arwen, Eruthiawen and Almárëa earlier in privacy. Still, appearances had to be maintained for the court.

Drawing down from the steps of the White Tower of Ecthelion, Arwen dipped in a stately curtsy to her king. The queen was resplendent in an off-the-shoulder gown of richest blue velvet, delicate white beadwork sewn so carefully along the cuffs and collar that they could easily have been mistaken for thread. The royal diadem set into her long black hair twinkled up at its silver and pearl counterpart on Aragorn's brow. Even the ever-poised lords of Gondor never failed to soften at the sight of the Star of the White City. Aragorn was even fonder still though of Arwen in moments between the two of them alone. As he bowed and pressed a kiss to her soft hand, he thought back to their private farewell in their chambers before daybreak.

_The soft pre-dawn glow filling the room offered to lull Aragorn back to sleep, but he knew he must soon rise. Besides, Arwen was with him, and he would not squander any moments which just they two might share. Rolling over in bed, he found his wife already awake and watching him. Sleeping in the manner of mortals was not something that Arwen had always done, especially not in her life as a daughter of elf-kind. When she had first come to him in Minas Tirith, Aragorn discovered his bride to be both joyful and restless. No longer was the elvish reverie enough for her to fully replenish herself, but neither did a human's sleep come easily. It had taken time, and many long nights spent lying awake in Aragorn's arms after he had nodded off before she learned to sleep and dream as he did. To this day though Arwen remained an extraordinarily early riser; earlier even than her Dúnedain husband._

_"Mae athollen (Welcome back)," she whispered, speaking in Sindarin as was their preference when they were alone. "What did you dream of last night?"_

_"Good morning, my love. I fear that there is little to tell from my dreams though, for all the time I spent wandering in them. They escape my mind already. What of your own?"_

_Arwen stretched long and languid, the sheets falling away from her smooth arms and graceful form. Aragorn could not resist the temptation offered by the rivers of dark hair spread across Arwen's pillow. Reaching across, he took up a lock of her hair and let it play between his fingers, combing the soft tresses tenderly._

_Arwen smiled, watching him. "Some nights I wonder if perchance the waking dreams of the Eldar are entwining themselves into the fabric of my mortal rest. I remember and command myself fully in my sleep, as an elf does, and yet my dreams are human in feel. It is a strange thing, and sometimes I can be fooled into believing that I am awake while still wandering the paths of my mind."_

_"Do these strange dreams...unsettle you?" Aragorn asked, ever alert to the unique life that his beloved led, and all of the untold cross-currents between two peoples that it made her subject to._

_"No, they do not." Turning onto her back, Arwen sighed. For a moment the two of them lay abed, listening to the birds nesting on the rooftops outside sing to greet the rising sun. "I had thought perhaps not to tell you this...but you are half of my heart, and I have no secrets from you, Estel. Sometimes, in my half-waking dreams, I meet my father, my mother, my mother's mother and father...everyone whom I shall never again see in this world. Sometimes we speak to one another, of things past and present, and all that ought to have been said and done, and other nights we simply walk in one another's presence." Arwen turned her face back to Aragorn, and smiled softly. "My dreams do not unsettle me, but sometimes they do grieve me. Sometimes I wish that they would not come, so that my joy at the life you and I have built together would not be cast in the nightly shadow of those whom I chose to leave."_

_Aragorn had never imagined to ask Arwen if she ever, even briefly, regretted the choice she had made for him. The thought crossed his mind to ask now, but he did not. Such a question would be a sad insult to Arwen's courage and strength of heart. Instead he did the only thing he could to soothe his wife's lingering grief; rose up on one elbow and leaned over to kiss her. They lingered there together for some time, until the sun had very nearly risen. When at last they parted and rose to begin the day, last night's dreams were safely tucked away._

_Arwen went to her vanity and set to work brushing her hair while Aragorn threw water on his face and dressed. As he put on sturdy breeches suited for a day in the saddle Arwen watched him in the mirror._

_"I shall have to put my foot down about your constant absences from my side one of these days, especially now that you have begun taking our children away with you."_

_With a soft chuckle Aragorn came to stand behind Arwen, laying his hands atop her shoulders. Looking at their reflections together in the mirror, he wished he could have shown such a vision to himself during his younger days of wandering as a ranger, uncertain and full of doubt._

_"This shall be the last time I leave you, at least for this year. I pro-"_

_Arwen held up a hand, stopping him in mid-sentence. "No, do not promise. What is it that you are always telling the girls, especially Túrien, about making promises that they cannot be sure to keep?"_

_"And so the teacher's own lesson rebounds upon them! Very well then, instead I will make this promise to you; I promise upon my life that I will keep careful watch over Eldarion and Túrien in Harad. As much as I dare to hope that the Haradrim's talk of peace is genuine, I still regard them with caution, and will do so until the day I am proven otherwise."_

_Arwen's shoulders relaxed, and she laid a hand on of one of Aragorn's. "I know our children could be no safer anywhere in all of Middle-Earth with you watching over them." Then Arwen's face in the mirror lifted in a playful expression. "Take care not to linger too long? Not only shall the girls and I miss you, but we are keeping poor Faramir and his family bound to Minas Tirith most burdensomely. Every day you are away is a day that our steward and his White Lady cannot return to their beloved home in Ithilien."_

_At that Aragorn laughed. "Indeed! If we keep them here much longer, they are liable to return to find that Legolas has loosed sparrows in their parlour and squirrels in their pantry in protest of their absence!"_

_That set Arwen to laughing too, and Aragorn bent to kiss her once more before returning to his preparations for the journey to Harad. He continued to watch Arwen as she brushed and pinned her raven-black hair. If he had any say in the matter, this would be the last time they were parted this year. He made the promise to himself, with every intention in the world that he would hold to it. The Evenstar was not easy to be parted from, especially for her husband._

When Aragorn mounted Brego, Eldarion and Túrien on their horses Greyhame and Goldwine sat at the ready behind him. The two young people were perceptibly excited, exchanging numerous glances and shifting in the saddle. Their horses, especially Túrien's Rohirrim-bred mare picked up on their riders' anticipation and flicked their tails to and fro. Éomer would be accompanied to Harad by two dozen of his best Riders, and likewise Captain Bergil had assigned a guard of six and thirty for the king, prince and princess of Gondor. Elphir, Prince of Dol Amroth and son of the late Prince Imrahil would also be joining them, as he had spent some time observing the Haradrim while fighting alongside Faramir's rangers in Ithilien during the War of the Ring.

"Come back soon Ada!"

Aragorn had been beginning to wonder when Almárëa would let her tenuous hold on royal restraint slip away. The littlest princess called out from the top step of the White Tower, a little bobbing figure in turquoise skirts trying to get his attention one last time before he left. Eruthiawen moved as if to shush her sister, but it was too late; the eyes of all the Gondorian nobility had already swiveled to Almárëa in bemusement.

Raising a hand in farewell, Aragorn smiled and called back to his daughter. "I will, before the leaves turn and fall. Farewell, my dear ones!"

With half of his family waving from the stairs and half ready to follow him east, the king of Gondor turned his horse to the top of the long, winding road that led all the way down from the Great Citadel to the main city gates. A breeze lifted the flags of the standard-bearers. It was hot and heavy with summer, but also with the scent of adventure. As much as he hated to be parted from Arwen, a new adventure was something that Aragorn had been craving for a long, long time. Urging Brego forward he set off, the ranger within surging closer to the surface with every fall of the old horse's hooves.

**OoOoO**

The first part of their journey to Harmindon took them through sweet and familiar woods in Ithilien. When they passed Éowyn and Faramir's settlement, the people of Ithilien came out to greet them on the road and offer them fruits freshly picked from the orchards. Although they did not have time to linger if they wished to meet the Haradrim chieftains by midsummer, they gladly accepted the peoples' gifts and wishes for safe travel. One young woman, not much older than Túrien, boldly darted forward from the back of the crowd gathered along the road. She had white myrtle flowers in her golden-brown hair, and offered Eldarion a wreath woven from the blooms. Eldarion caught the wreath in hand as he passed, provoking merciless teasing from Túrien for the next several hours although he did not wear it.

"You know Eldarion," she commented casually long after the settlement was behind them. "Myrtle flowers have a special meaning associated with them."

"Túrien..." warned Eldarion.

"They're symbols of love, particularly of the marital variety. Methinks if you turned around and went back now you could still have yourself a future queen by summer's end."

" _Túriennnn!_ "

Eldarion's face heated right up to his ears. It did not help at all that several of the soldiers riding around them were unsubtly trying to smother grins beneath their helmets. Even their father's shoulders might have been twitching up and down as he rode in front of them in barely contained laughter. Éomer turned to wink back at Eldarion.

"She's not wrong you know. Now that you're of age, nothing is stopping you from finding someone to court, Eldarion. Why, I'm told that your father met your mother at the tender age of twenty."

"True, my friend, but we did not wed until many, many years after that," interjected Aragorn, admitting defeat and allowing himself to address the topic at hand. He fastened a meaningful look on Túrien. "Túrien, I'm sure Eldarion would be very grateful if you could refrain from commenting every time he happens to interact with a young lady. There may come a day when you will wish for equal courtesy from your brother and sisters."

"Yes Adar," was what Túrien said aloud. " _Not likely_ ," was what she murmured under her breath, with yet another evil grin in Eldarion's direction. Eldarion resigned himself to this being a very long trip indeed.

**OoOoO**

The further south they got, the drier and browner the land became. The lush green forests of Ithilien shrunk down into shrubbery, and the sunsets took on more of a red, fiery hue. After making the crossing at the river Poros, they would pass into the region known as South Gondor. Eldarion had never been there before, but knew of it from Faramir and Elboron as an oddly beautiful land. Cliffs and valleys of stratified rocks stood in sharp relief against wide open skies, and the sharp, waxy plants which grew there would burst into bright blooms of color at night or after a rainfall. This was the land which the Haradrim wished to reclaim as Harondor. From what little Eldarion knew of the Haradrim, and of South Gondor, he imagined that such a place might suit such a people. That was, if they could peaceably reoccupy it without posing a threat to Gondor's southern borders at Ithilien, Pelargir and Dol Amroth.

One evening after they had set camp, Túrien approached Eldarion and asked to practice sparring with him. Eldarion hadn't even known until recently that his youngster sister knew how to wield a blade, and seeing Hadhafang hanging at her belt as she rode had been strange. Still, he was willing, and he and Túrien paced out a makeshift training ring beside the fire while Aragorn and Éomer sat nearby, listening as Elphir recounted what he knew of the Haradrim.

"Harad's tribes are organized into those of Near and Far Harad," Elphir was saying "with those of Far Harad being darker in complexion and taller in build than the Haradrim of Near Harad. Far Harad I have heard tell of being divided into so-called kingdoms, but these kingdoms are small, constantly at war with one another, and less worthy of the name than even the tribes of Near Harad."

"And to what extent do the politics of Far Harad and Near Harad –  _Eldarion you are holding back far too much!_  – hold sway over one another?" asked Aragorn.

Elphir thought for a moment, making way for the ringing of steel on steel to fill the campsite. Eldarion was taller and broader than Túrien, but Túrien was proving herself to be quicker on her feet. Whether that was due to Eldarion holding back for his sister's sake, or simply Túrien's smaller frame, the princess was all too keen to take advantage of the difference. She had no choice but to; Eldarion was certainly strong enough to knock her flat if it came to a physical match.

Apparently coming to a conclusion, Elphir continued. "If there is any influence, it is chiefly in the sense of military position. The tribes of Near and Far Harad often fight amongst themselves, but even more often they fight one another. I fear that, even if the chieftains of Near Harad, whom you met at the Sea of Rhûn, can be negotiated with to reach an accord, it is most unlikely that the 'kingdoms' of Far Harad will honor it."

Éomer frowned, chewing the edge of his mustache. The firelight against the gathering twilight on the hills highlighted yet another newly acquired set of lines in his face. "I like it not. We are to treat for peace with the chieftains of some tribes, while watching for a dagger in our backs from the chieftains of others?"

"As Arwen and I discussed before agreeing to send Túrien with us, Chieftains Na'Man, Tufayl and Bakr would be amiss if they haven't considered the need for our protection from unfriendly tribes while we are in Harmindon."

"Aragorn, have you considered –  _Eldarion! Aragorn, are you certain you want your daughter fighting like this? That will surely bruise..._  – considered that we may be walking into a trap? If this is a ploy by the Haradrim to get two enemy kings and the next in line to Gondor's throne in one place and vulnerable, I'd say it's been a smashing success thus far."

"On that theory, Lord Éomer, I am afraid I must disagree," said Elphir. "The Haradrim have their own code of honour; different than most Men of the West keep, to be sure, but a code nonetheless. Although we will undoubtedly be at risk from unfriendly tribes and chieftains once we enter Harad, the chieftains who invited us, Na'Man in particular who is our host in Harmindon, will not sleep until they see us sent safely on our way back to Minas Tirith."

Éomer was not appeased. "And if our negotiations should go poorly? What of after they send us on our way out of Harmindon, thus appeasing their code? Who's to say what can happen on the road that they might turn a blind eye to, and call it unfortunate when we never return?"

"If even one of us were to escape and make it back to Minas Tirith, then the location of Harmindon, so long jealously guarded by the Haradrim, will be known to a western world primed to avenge their royal houses," said Aragorn wearily. "The chieftains made this invitation in good faith, Éomer, and I accepted it in the same. Peace cannot even begin to be considered between Gondor, Rohan and Harad if we cannot trust the Haradrim to host a single visit to their lands.  _Keep your sword tip up, Túrien_."

Éomer sighed. "You are brave, Aragorn, and braver still for bringing your children here with you. I admire you for it, but I cannot help but fear that your courage will be ill-rewarded." When there was only silence forthcoming, the king of Rohan slapped his thigh and stood. "We have trusted to hope before though, and seen it realized. I will retire for tonight, and leave you to enjoy the evening air. Goodnight Lord Aragorn, Elphir."

"Goodnight Lord Éomer. I wish you a restful night," Aragorn replied. Éomer was just about to turn away when a pained yelp from across the fire brought the lords' heads swivelling.

"Túrien! You cannot strike a man there, especially not in sparring! Apologize to your brother at once!"

Éomer however was now laughing. "If any of us are to survive this visit, it will likely be the Lady Túrien! I pity any man, be they Gondorian, Rohirrim or Haradrim, who runs afoul of her!"

* * *

 


	15. The City of Many Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Aragorn and the others embark on the much anticipated (and hotly debated) journey to Harmindon, Eldarion finds himself thrust head-first into a world entirely unlike anything he's ever known.

 

* * *

 

Some places in this world cannot be done justice by word of mouth or the written word. Rather, they must be seen firsthand to be truly believed. Harad was such a place. The further southeast their party traveled, the less Túrien and Eldarion could be persuaded to tear their eyes away from the strange, utterly foreign land which now surrounded them. It was like nothing they had ever seen before. Not even the northern capital of Annúminas on the glassy shores of Lake Evendim had rendered ever-lively Túrien so utterly speechless.

Not a single tree or blade of grass grew as far as the eye could see. Instead the land was decorated by looming walls of sandstone bracketed by towering peaks around which black-winged vultures flew like bats. The sand shifted and scorched beneath their horses’ hooves, making even stately old Brego’s head droop in distaste. Against the burning yellow of the land, the sky seemed a blue so impossibly bright, it brought to mind an endless jewel in which the world had been encased. It was an arid land, a harsh land...a beautiful land, in its own sun-struck way.

For the men of Gondor and Rohan, the sun became an instant and inescapable enemy from the moment they crossed the river Poros at the southern border of Ithilien. Lord Elphir recommended travelling with the hoods of their cloaks up during daylight hours. Uncomfortable as the hot cloth around their heads was, it at least saved their faces from far more uncomfortable burns. Eldarion especially had to take care, having inherited his mother’s porcelain pale complexion. Túrien however was somewhat swarthier, or at least as swarthy as one could call a descendent of Númenor like Aragorn. Still, she too kept her hood up as they rode throughout the day, eyes flashing from one rock formation to the next. Even Éomer, well used to long hours out under the open sky on the rolling hills of the Mark, could only stand to go uncovered in the earliest hours of the morning. Despite best efforts, every last one of them ended up sunburnt to some extent or other by the third day into Harad.

The unblinking sun was not the only eye under which they traveled. One morning Eldarion caught sight of something moving amongst the crags of a nearby cliff. At first, thinking perhaps it might have been a bird he said nothing but continued to watch. A few moments later, another flicker of movement confirmed Eldarion’s suspicions. Reining Greyhame closer to where his father rode, Eldarion leaned in to speak in a low murmur while trying not to appear on the alert.

“Adar...I think there are men watching us...there, among the rocks.”

To Eldarion’s surprise, Aragorn smiled; a quick twitch of the lips that betrayed no unease.

“I had hoped you would spot them as well. Our hosts appear to have sent out a welcoming party.”

“Then why do they not come forward and declare themselves?” asked Eldarion, still ill at ease now that he could feel the hairs on the back of his rising beneath hidden gazes.

“I think, perhaps, that they have been told by their lords to watch us, and see how we conduct ourselves within their lands. That is why I have told our sentries and guards not to stray too far from camp each night. No doubt any attempts or suspected attempts by us to scout the area on our way to Harmindon will not be well received.” Seeing that Eldarion was still uncomfortable, Aragorn reached across to pat Greyhame’s neck. “Take ease, Eldarion. If they meant us harm they have already had ample opportunity to attack. I am confident our ‘escorts’ will show themselves in good time.”

**OoOoO**

Sure enough, Aragorn turned out to be correct in his assumptions. On the fifth day the ever-present sandstone hedges which ran through the desert like veins tightened around them, transforming into a labyrinth of sand and stone. A faint trickle of water from somewhere within the rocks caught Eldarion’s ear, making him think longingly of his nearly empty water skin. He saw no sign of a stream in the dusty earth though. Even the shadows cast by the walls of the gorge looming overhead wer little more than temptation unfulfilled; the heat was almost as high in the shade as it was in the open.

A snort from Greyhame was all the warning Eldarion got before they found themselves surrounded on all sides. Red and black headwraps appeared from behind seemingly every boulder. Many of the Rohirrims’ hands twitched toward the hilts of their swords, including Éomer’s. The same was also true for more than one soldier of Gondor. Only with great effort did Eldarion restrain himself from reacting similarly when he saw that Aragorn remained calm in the saddle. The king did, however, subtly let Brego take a step to place himself squarely in front of Eldarion and Túrien. 

“Greetings, people of Harad,” he said. “We have come as invited by Chieftains Bakr, Na’Man and Tufayl, to meet with them in Harmindon ‘ere the first days of autumn.”

The Haradrim scouts did not unmask. None of them seemed intent upon threatening the Men of the West though; their hold on spear and shortbow alike remained neutral. One of the scouts stepped down to the floor of the gorge to stand before Aragorn and Éomer’s horses. He thumped the butt of his spear on the ground before speaking in a heavily accented voice, muffled ever so slightly by the cloth of his headwrap.

“The chieftains of Near Harad welcome you, Kings Elessar the White City and Éomer of the Green Mark. Chieftain Bakr and his honoured guests await you at the City of Many Waters. Follow us, and we will guide you safely into Harmindon.”

With that, their self-appointed guides came down from the rocks, taking up positions in a rectangle around the mounted party. Eldarion glanced at Túrien to see what she thought of her first glimpse of the Haradrim. Túrien’s hood was down on account of the shade offered by the stones. She was watching the scouts curiously, taking in their basketweave armor and bone beading just as Eldarion had done when meeting the chieftains at the Sea of Rhûn. Hadhafang hung in its sheath at her hip, polished hilt glinting dully in the muted light. Eldarion hoped they knew what they were getting themselves into.

From that point on, the Haradrim led them on a twisting journey through the maze of sandstone that even a Dúnedain range would have been truly pressed to remember. The ground hardened and grew firm beneath them, and the horses’ hooves sent echoing  _clip-clops_  all around. Small white lizards skittered to and fro amongst the rocks, watching the strange passersby and no doubt wondering at the hairy beasts upon which they rode. Horses were not kept by the Haradrim, and yet the men on foot had no trouble keeping pace. When at last they turned the final corner, Eldarion gaped in amazement at the sight before them.

The walls of stone fell back, revealing a wide open space nearly as far across as Edoras. The city of Hardmindon was a curious mixture of stick and stone, bleak and colorful. Most of the structures of the city were built from sandstone blocks, but their roofs were woven from a sort of dried reed, creating breath in an otherwise stifling space. Wide awnings of bright red cloth stretched across the streets, shading the front stoops of buildings and even entire city squares. For the first time in days, greenery could be seen in the form of unusual, waxy-leaved trees and ferns. These seemed to flourishing largely in part thanks to the greatest wonder of Harmindon; the aquaducts.

Looking much like bridges to nowhere, great stone causeways funneled down out of the rock faces surrounding Harmindon to criss-cross throughout the city. Everywhere they led, life and growth and color could be seen. Most of the aquaducts seemed to congregate in the center of the city, where a great yellow structure with broad-faced towers and many gardens could be seen. This was almost certainly the seat of power in Harmindon. It was no Minas Tirith, but the City of Many Waters certainly lived up to its name. In the midst of a land as dry and inhospitable as Harad, no doubt Harmindon was a haven of incredible beauty and luxury to the Haradrim.

As their guides led them into the city, it didn’t take long for Eldarion to realize just how much they really were strangers in a strange land. The people of Harmindon were unusual to the prince of Gondor’s eye, and the same was evidently true twice-over in return. Men and women, all dressed in flowing garb of red, orange and charcoal grey with gazes shadowed by dark eye paint witnessed their passing as no doubt the people of Gondor would react to an envoy of Haradrim passing beneath the Main Gate of Minas Tirith. Many shrank back, even turning away to disappear inside their homes and businesses. Others stood their ground, eyeing the lords of Gondor and Rohan with clenched jaws and narrowed eyes. Only a few watched with what might have been calling benign curiosity. The further into Harmindon they passed, the more Eldarion understood more of why that might be so.

Although it was apparent that a distinct effort had been made to put the city into its best possible state, the signs of poverty and famine could not be entirely hidden. Thin children with knobby knees darted out from alleys to risk trying to touch the horses’ tails, and the fare in the market stalls looked lean at best. Eldarion couldn’t imagine what kind of foods the Haradrim could manage to grow in the lands beyond the labyrinth, but clearly it wasn’t enough. War had also taken a toll of the city. For every man and young lad that Eldarion saw, there were at least three more women to outnumber him. It reminded Eldarion a bit of how he had heard the older soldiers describe Gondor in the days immediately following the War of the Ring. Apparently the Haradrim had yet to find prosperity again like the west had.

Still, when they reached the central citadel of Harmindon, their hosts were out in state to greet them. One of the scouts that met them beyond the city must have slipped ahead to warn the chieftains of the approaching party, or so Eldarion figured. They awaited the western delegation in an open courtyard filled with leafy ferns, the midday sun casting everyone in gauzy red through the awnings and making the blue tiles of the walkway appear violet. Na’Man was there, as were Bakr and Tufyal. The three chieftains were no longer clad for battle, as they had been when last (and first) they met. Instead the three men wore baggy trousers beneath long, heavily beaded and embroidered jackets, covered at the waist with a broad cloth belt. Like their people, the chieftains mostly dressed in hues of red, black, grey and gold, although Tufayl, the youngest and chieftain of Pazghar, wore a coat in the same brilliant burgundy as the richest of wine grapes. Eldarion was both disappointed and relieved to see that none of them sported their previous display of facial war-paint. Na’Man was almost unrecognizable without the long, scarlet talons bracketing his hooked nose.

Also unfamiliar were the women beside which each of the chieftains stood. They were short, much shorter than a woman of Gondor or even Rohan. However, they held themselves with an air that suggested they were not to be trifled with. Elaborate shawl drapery swathed each of the women in shimmering wraps of blue, green and white. They stood out against the warm palette of their homeland and their menfolk like the clusters of trees and orchids throughout the city.

Aragorn and Éomer dismounted on the step before the courtyard, and everyone else in the kings’ retinue followed their lead. Túrien was all but vibrating with excitement next to Eldarion as they followed their father. The shade from the canopy made it hard to tell just how sunburnt Túrien was, but even so a delighted smile was tugging at the corners of her storm-blue eyes. She practically danced along after Aragorn, coming to stop nearly even with him in her excitement. When Aragorn and Éomer bowed politely as befitting a guest though, Túrien did at least remember her manners and dip a knee in what approximated a curtsey without a skirt. Eldarion did love seeing his little sister all wound up and excited like this, which did not happen often within the safety of the walls of Minas Tirith.

“Welcome, King Aragorn Elessar of Gondor and King Éomer Éadig of Rohan, to Harmindon, our precious ‘City of Many Waters’.”

It was to almost every one of the visitors’ surprise when not Na’Man, not Bakr, not even Tufayl spoke first to address the kings of the West, but the woman in emerald green shawls whom Eldarion assumed to be Na’Man’s wife. Scarcely missing a beat, Aragon spoke directly to her in return.

“Greetings to you, lords and ladies of the Haradrim. Thank you for your gracious invitation to host us here in your extraordinary city. After many days on the road, the City of Many Waters is surely a sight for sore eyes.”

People whom Eldarion assumed to be courtiers of the Haradrim fashion tittered quietly from around the edges of the courtyard. He didn’t think that his father had said anything particularly funny, but the Haradrim seemed vaguely amused all the same. It was something of a relief when Na’Man took the initiative to make introductions.

“Kings Aragorn and Éomer, you of course are acquainted with myself and chieftains Bakr and Tufayl. I now am honored to present the Ramyahs, or matriarchs of our three clans. Zamira, Ramyah of Abrakhân...” The woman in blue standing next to Bakr, as generously-figured and full of face as her husband was powerful even in his middling years, inclined her head. Zamira reminded Eldarion of the sort of grandmotherly person who would give you a pastry behind the cooks’ backs but still scold you more fiercely than even a parent could. Then she smiled, crinkling myriad of laugh lines around her dark eyes, and Eldarion decided he liked the Ramyah of Abrakhân.

“...Gulim, Ramyah of Pazghar...” White-clad Gulim, whom Tufayl stood just behind, was truly a wonder to behold. The youngest of the three Ramyahs and also the tallest, her beauty bordered on frightening, perhaps because she was so different from the women of Gondor and Rohan. Her skin practically glowed with inner fire beneath the red shade of the canopies, setting off lips fuller and redder than the brightest of red currant berries. If it were not for the puckered scars marring Tufayl’s face, he would have been almost as handsome as his wife, and even so they were still an incredibly striking pair. The thinly veiled distrust with which Gulim eyed the westerners only made Eldarion feel more intimidated by her. He tried not to squirm beneath the gaze of Pazghar’s Ramyah.

“...and your hostess, Sawda, the Ramyah of Harmindon.”

The first thing Eldarion noticed about Sawda were the dark tattoos marking her face; a single black line from lips to chin, and smaller lines hashes fanning the corners of her eyes. Sawda’s features were precise and angular, much like Na’Man’s, although whereas he wore his sharpness like a hawk, fierce and focused, she seemed almost serene as she took in her guests. Gold hoops dangled from her ears and around her wrists, but Sawda wore it all lightly beneath the piercing midday heat. Also like Na’Man, Sawda seemed to see more than the obvious; her eyes moved from person to person carefully, lingering on people like Éomer or Túrien apparently at random. When at last Sawda settled on Aragorn, she smiled, a guarded expression but genuine all the same.

“Well met, Ramyahs Zamira, Gulim, and Sawda.” Aragorn bowed once again. “May I also introduce my children, Prince Eldarion and Princess Túrien of Gondor, as well as Lord Elphir, Prince of Dol Amroth.”

“Your son we are familiar with, having seen his prowess in battle at the Sea of Rhûn,” said Na’Man. “Prince Elphir is also a name known to us among the lords of Gondor, as was his father’s before him. The princess Túrien however, we are pleased to meet now for the first time and, stars willing, not the last.”

Sawda cleared her throat. “It is the custom among the Haradrim that, when multiple clans gather together in one place, the women house together in separate quarters from the men. You, Princess, are of course welcome to remain among your people during your stay in Harmindon, if that is more the western custom. However, if you wish, there is certainly a place for you in the women’s wings of the house. I imagine, after your travels, that you would all welcome a chance to refresh yourselves before we gather for the evening meal?”

For once in her life, Túrien had the good sense to defer to their father before charging ahead. She opened her mouth, hesitated, then looked to Aragorn for any sign of misgivings before consenting to be separated from the rest of their company. Éomer’s bushy brows, already dangerously close to frowning, now embraced an outright scowl. Elphir, who had the most experience with Haradrim, did not seem overly alarmed though, and so Aragorn nodded in acquiescence.

“I would be glad of the company of other women, after so many days surrounded by menfolk,” said Túrien politely.

Zamira smiled again, just as warmly as the last. “Come then, and we will see you settled in rooms and given all you need for your comfort. Na’Man, you will see to it that the kings and their men are likewise quartered.”

Although Eldarion was well used to Aragorn heeding their mother’s words, both in private and often in public, it still came as a surprise to see not even Sawda, but Zamira, the Ramyah of another clan speak to Na’Man in such a way as implied an order. The chieftain of Harmindon simply nodded though, waving over servants from where they had been waiting amongst the columns bordering the garden.

“Come, lords of the West. Your horses shall be tended to by careful hands, and we have suites well befitting honored guests of your regard. Take all the time you may desire to prepare for dinner; such affairs are unhurried among our people, and the first course will not be served until the sun is below the stones.”

Handing over Greyhame’s reins to the Haradrim servants was not the easiest thing Eldarion had ever done. Even more nerve-wracking was watching Túrien’s back as she walked away from them, following Sawda and the other Ramyahs across the courtyard. She did not look back, and so Eldarion could only trust to these strange and intriguing people to be good to his sister. It seemed, whether they liked it or not, they all now had no choice but to put their trust in folk who had for generations been blood enemies.

**OoOoO**


	16. Blood of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eldarion and the others join their Haradrim hosts for dinner. It turns out that there is much to be learned about these fiercesome desert people.

* * *

 

The Men of the West and their Haradrim hosts gathered for dinner in a round hall filled with the glow of firelight. Fire burned in braziers hanging suspended from hooks upon every pillar and in an open pit in the center of the room. A low table ringed the hall a ways back from the central fire; low enough that cushions rather than chairs were set at each place. Musicians could be heard playing unfamiliar instruments, and the sound was somehow both discordant and rich to Eldarion's ears, not unlike the war horns he had heard at the Sea of Rhûn.

Uncertain of where to sit, Eldarion looked to his father for guidance. Aragorn, Éomer, Elphir and Eldarion had all bathed and dressed for a state dinner, although even their linen shirts and thin-layered doublets felt like too much fabric to be wearing in the lingering heat. Eldarion thought his father looked very kingly in gold-embroidered scarlet, as well as suited to the favored colors of the Haradrim. Eldarion himself wore white and dark brown, and was glad he had opted to go without a cloak or cape of any sort. Éomer was already flushed in his lordly cloak of green and gold, although the king of Rohan gave no show of discomfort. Instead he waited unspeaking next to Aragorn, his sun-lined gaze mapping out the hall and everyone in it with the precision of a seasoned warrior.

A young boy approached, addressing them in thickly accented Westron. "Kings and lords of the west, Chieftain Na'Man invites you to join him and his most honored guests at the table."

Aragorn smiled at the boy. "We follow your lead then, good page."

The boy led them around the edge of the room past scores of Haradrim men already seated. Many dark eyes lingered on them as they passed; Eldarion could feel their gazes prickling at the back of his neck. It came as a relief when he recognized Na'Man, Bakr and Tufayl sitting together toward the back of the hall. Empty cushions waited on either side of the three chieftains. They did not rise to greet the newly arrived kings, which would have sparked instant outrage if this dinner were to be taking place in the Great Hall of Feasts in Minas Tirith. Polite smiles brightened the faces of Na'Man and Bakr though, and the chieftains nodded their heads in greeting, which seemed to be considered sufficient. Following the lead of their hosts, Aragorn and Éomer only nodded as well before folding their legs and settling on untaken cushions.

Eldarion nearly bumped his knee on the low table as he sat. His heart sank when he saw the place set on the table in front of him. On either side of the plate were a number of unfamiliar utensils, none of which Eldarion knew how to use. How would the Haradrim speak of Gondor if its prince were to make a fool of himself over a simple dinner? Another thought also set Eldarion's nerves on edge; where was Túrien? Where were any of the Haradrim women, in fact? Looking around the ring of the table, Eldarion could see only men present.

"King Aragorn and King Éomer, we trust you and your people found your accommodations acceptable?" asked Na'Man. The chieftain now wore an open robe of deep saffron over his jacket, the hem of which pooled across his folded knees like woven sunlight.

"More than acceptable, Chieftain Na'Man," Aragorn replied. "The beauty of your house's baths is almost as delightful as the freshness of the water after our days of travel. Truly, Harmindon's aquaducts are a marvel of ingenuity."

"I must admit, their use is impressive," admitted Éomer, somewhat begrudgingly.

Bakr chuckled, his impossibly deep voice like rolling thunder. "The City of Waters has been the crown jewel of our people for centuries upon centuries. The aquaducts find their source from a hidden spring deep within the cliffs. Our ancestors, upon finding the spring and declaring it the heart of life in the desert, labored long and over many generations to deliver its water to civilization. Even in times of war, it is forbidden by law to bar anyone who comes unarmed from accessing the spring."

"The people of Near Harad call the spring  _Na'Man ab Jubayr_ , or 'Blood of Life'," added Tufayl.

"An apt name," said Aragorn. "One it seems that you share, Chieftain Na'Man?"

Na'Man flashed a close-lipped smile, one that reminded Eldarion uncomfortably that they sat at the table of Gondor's ancestral enemies. "Only in part, King of Gondor. While the spring is  _ab Jubayr_ , 'of life', I am simply  _Na'man_ , or 'blood', named so because I was blooded as a warrior before birth, having killed my twin in our mother's womb."

"Is it considered an admirable thing among your people then, to be blooded at a young age?" asked Éomer.

"No, King Éomer, it is not. To be blooded young implies that your own father has failed in his duty as defender of his children. Once a warrior is blooded, they are also potential rivals for their father's command on the battlefield. That is why our people prefer not to permit sons to fight until they are old enough to be bonded to a life-mate at ten-and-nine years of age."

Bakr reached up and seized the back of Na'Man's head, grasping his skull and ruffling his night-black hair in a friendly manner. "Which means that soon enough you'll be having to guard your place at the reins of your Mûmak, lest Sufyan takes it from you and sends you home to smoke and tend the gardens with the elders!"

Prince Elphir, who had been listening with interest, leaned in to speak. "And have you sons of age, Chieftain Bakr? Forgive my rudeness, but it seems to me that if Chieftain Na'Man is old enough to have a son ready to succeed him, then surely-"

"Surely I am an old man and more than overripe for the picking by comparison?" finished Bakr, arching a greying eyebrow at Elphir pointedly, who colored at the cheeks.

"Forgive me, I meant no disrespect..."

"Be at peace, none was taken. You are not wrong, Lord Elphir; my eldest is indeed old enough to have sent me to the gardens near-on a decade ago. I however have been blessed with six daughters, each the pride of Zamira's house. My eldest learns and waits to follow Zamira to the title of Ramyah of Abrakhân, and the two after her have been bonded, one within our clan and one to a warrior of Pazghar. The three youngest are not yet of age, and so have a few years yet in which to bring their old father joy."

"Your daughter Usaymah brings such light and wisdom to us in Pazghar that we scarce know how we endured the years without her, Bakr," said Tufayl. "My younger brother especially is a changed man for living within her house."

"Speaking of daughters..." Aragorn spoke calmly, but Eldarion was relieved that he was finally addressing the lingering question of Túrien's whereabouts. "...will the women be joining us for dinner this evening? I would speak to Túrien, if she can be spared."

Na'Man indicated the span of the hall with a wave, more particularly the many cushions which still remained empty at the table. "The women will arrive when they deem it time for the meal to be served, King Aragorn. Fear not, for I suspect they will not be long in coming now that the sun has set beyond the cliffs."

Sure enough, less than five minutes later there was movement in the direction of the hall's main door. Page boys flanked the doors, and the musicians changed their tune, adding in high, reedy instruments that rose like a breeze through carven wind flutes. All of the men seated around the table stood as if on cue, and following their lead the men of the West did the same. It was the sort of fanfare that would have precluded the arrival of a king at a state dinner in Minas Tirith. Curious, Eldarion watched with interest as the doors to the hall slid open.

Sawda, Zamira and Gulim led the women into the room, the ramyahs' trailing gowns and wraps floating after them in the warm evening air. Almost immediately Eldarion spotted Túrien in their midst. She wore the ruby red gown which their mother had sent her with, belted with delicate chains of gold and stitched with tiny stars and shields at the neckline. The dress had been altered since Eldarion last saw it though. He could have sworn that, when last he saw it on Túrien at the feast marking their return from the Sea of Rhûn, it had boasted full trumpet sleeves. Now though, it appeared that the sleeves had been removed at the shoulder seam, replaced instead by gauzy red cloth that drifted weightlessly around Túrien's arms. Túrien seemed both safe and, if anything, completely at ease with her present company. In fact, she flashed both her father and brother a beaming grin as she followed the ramyahs around the table to where they sat.

It was only when Sawda and the other women were completely seated that the men returned to their cushions. Servants carrying trays laden with covered dishes began to file into the hall from the main doors, and the strong scent of spiced meat reached Eldarion's nose. There had been bowls of fresh fruit in their rooms that afternoon, and so he was not famished, but dinner smelled good enough to make his mouth water regardless. Aragorn beckoned Túrien in with a crook of his finger, and she leaned over from her seat beside him close enough that he might speak to her privately. The two exchanged a few murmurs, and after Túrien shook her head Aragorn seemed satisfied. He turned to Sawda and offered thanks for hosting such a fine dinner, as well as praised the comfort of their accommodations once again. Éomer did the same, and the Ramyah of Harmindon accepted their courtesies with a dignified nod and smile.

As each servant stopped and offered their tray in front of him, Eldarion could only guess at what each dish might be and take a chance. Some like bread and eggs were fairly apparent, even though the eggs were boiled and peeled with some sort of red-orange power and sprigs of herb served over top. Others were more difficult to pinpoint, including a number of stuffed dishes and what looked like pickled vegetables diced and served in sauce. The largest trays featured cubes of cut meat skewered on long wooden rods, interspersed with brightly colored peppers and liberally seasoned. These were incredibly spicy when Eldarion tasted them, driving him to drink deeply from his cup of sweet apricot juice. Túrien laughed as he tried to contain his stinging coughs. Much more appetizing in Eldarion's opinion were the round, slightly crisp balls of what Tufayl told him were crushed beans mixed with dough. All in all the food was delicious, and after watching the Haradrim carefully Eldarion was able to navigate through the many eating utensils without obvious difficulty.

When the last bite was cleared – it seemed important that no morsel of food be left uneaten on one's plate – the servants came forward once again to clear away the dishes. Strong coffee was poured out and served along with wine and small bowls of a light pudding covered with ground nuts and cinnamon. Sawda clapped her hands, making the metal bracelets on her wrists jangle loudly.

"Let us have sweet music and dancing, to feed our spirits now that our bellies are content. Come musicians, play us a song!"

The minstrels, who during dinner had lapsed mostly into low background music, now once again lifted their art to the ears of all. Drums, stringed instruments and singers piped up in harmony to create an eerie, blood-stirring chorus. Dancers appeared at the doorway; young men and women alike, all clad in the brightest of colors and much intricate jewelry. They went barefoot, whirling and swooping into the center of the room in a storm of dark skin and iridescent silks. Eldarion scarce could decide where to look, with each dancer more entrancing than the last. Túrien appeared similarly awestruck, her hands clasped in excitement as her eyes flashed from one performer to the next.

Aragorn and Éomer took in the spectacle with just as much appreciation, joining in the applause as the song ended. When the music changed and the dancers showed no signs of retiring though, Aragorn shifted his attention to Na'Man.

"Chieftain Na'Man, when last we met, you requested among other things the ownership of the lands we know as South Gondor, to you Harondor. If such a thing were to come to pass, which clans would occupy that land? Which chieftain would rule there?"

Rather than answer, Na'Man turned to his wife. Sawda met Na'Man's eye, and then the two changed seats, placing Sawda on the cushion closest to Aragorn. Before Aragorn could wonder at this apparent outright snub by the Chieftain of Harmindon, Sawda's lips quirked in amusement.

"If it is matters of land that you wish to discuss this night, O King of the White City, it is me that you must discuss them with. Were we in your city, it would be your queen the Evenstar that Na'Man would likewise be seeking out for such a conversation."

"Forgive me my ignorance, Ramyah Sawda," said Aragorn. "but it seems I may require some instruction regarding the manner of your peoples' governance. Before coming to Harmindon, I knew Na'Man to be the leader of your clan. Since arriving though, I have come to wonder if I was not mistaken?"

"You were both correct and mistaken, King Aragorn. By Haradrim law, the chieftains are lord and master in all things beyond the clan circle. Once within the bounds of home though, whether that be a lowly camp circle or the towering stone walls of our City of Many Waters, the ramyahs rule all. It is the same in every family be they simple or noble; to men goes the battlefield, and to women goes the home. Each is mighty and respected within their given sphere. Therefore I bid you bring all your matters of state to me that we might deliberate on them during your stay here in Harmindon. The same to you, King Éomer of the Green Mark."

"Is there ever any crossing over between the spheres, Ramyah?" asked Éomer. "Do Haradrim women ever take up the spear and fight alongside their men, as the Shieldmaidens of Rohan are wont to do from time to time?" A note of irony found its way into Éomer's voice, no doubt remembering how Éowyn had defied both himself and their uncle to enter the fray on the Fields of Pelennor.

A dancer whirled by especially close, and Sawda took a moment to dip a finger into her wine, flicking the droplets onto the dancer's trailing silks. This seemed to please the dancer, who beamed and pranced away to the applause of all.

"Yes, although it is likely just as commonplace a thing as your Rohirrim Shieldmaidens. Chieftain Bakr is in fact trying to tempt one of his younger daughters to take up the reins of their Mûmak before he grows too old." Sawda turned her attention to Aragorn in full force. "Returning to your question, King Aragorn, that is perhaps a discussion best left for morning light. For now though, I will say this; the lands of Harondor could make a great difference to our people. Just as we share the waters of  _Na'Man ab Jubayr_  with all, so would the lands of Harondor be shared. It has been proposed that the smallest and weakest of the clans be granted reign of Harondor, there to settle and find prosperity at last. There are many such groups, descendents of clans defeated by rivals and cast away from their ancestral oasis, which scrape poor and meager livings from the desert sand. Few of them have sufficient means to keep Mûmakil, and so would be unable to offer threat to your southern borders at Ithilien and Dol Amroth."

"The most powerful among the Haradrim would step back and allow the meanest and lowliest to profit from such a prize as South Gondor?" asked Éomer wonderingly. "And how would the people living in cities like Harmindon take such a thing, to be told that they must remain where they are while others profit from lands capable of bearing crops?"

Sawda lifted a wry eyebrow at Éomer. "Ah, but we do in fact stand to gain by such an arrangement with the lower clans, King Éomer. For, as it stands now, we are bound by law to permit them free access to the waters of the spring. This means the constant presence of near-strangers just beyond our city. The desert clans are also often hungry, and therefore often troublesome to others. Removing them to Harondor will allow not only their own to flourish, but us as well who need no longer contend with their desperate raids on travelling caravans. Besides...we who live in our beloved City of Many Waters have no desire to leave."

"And so you would put Haradrim raiders on the borders of Ithilien, Ramyah?" asked Aragorn gravely.

"There is a difference between raiders who fight for sport and half-starved families hungry for good lands, King."

Throughout much of the conversation, Eldarion had been listening with as much attention as he could spare from the delights of the Haradrim dancers. When the three rulers fell silent next to him Eldarion's mind was free to rejoin his eyes. Túrien sat rapt with fascination on his other side, and when Eldarion followed her wide-eyed gaze he could see why. A bare-chested young man spun and swayed nearby, sweat making his skin gleam in the light of the central fire. The men of Gondor certainly did not look like that when they danced. Eldarion thought to tease Túrien...at least until Gulim stood up several cushions down. When the Ramyah of Pazghar stepped lithely out of her shoes and over the table to join the dancers, white shawls trailing behind her like mist, Eldarion could scarcely keep his own mouth from hanging agape.

**OoOoO**


	17. Mûmakil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet another unexpected side of the Haradrim (and their mighty war-beasts) is revealed to the lords of the West, and little by little, bitter enemies start to warm to one another.

* * *

 

When Eldarion awoke the next morning, it was to the sound of unknown birds trilling in the gardens below his window. The day was already hot, and so he was glad of the lightness of the sheets as he slid out of them. Padding over to the window in bare feet, he opened the intricately carved shutters and threw them wide.

The vast arch of an aquaduct loomed overhead, casting a shadow across the gardens and the old men who tended them. A cool, earthy scent just barely tinged with the brightness of sunlight stretched up into the air from the waxen leaves of ferns and trees. Eldarion caught sight of a brief flash of iridescent wings among the foliage. With Harmindon still quiet at dawn, he could just hear the constant trickle of water down from the duct along the core of the nearest sandstone column. The City of Many Waters lay in wait, beckoning its guests to see what sights it might hold. Eldarion could scarcely wash and dress himself fast enough.

They gathered in a shaded courtyard for a breakfast of milk, honey and a white, fleshy plant which Bakr told them was called 'coconut'. According to him, coconuts grew only around the shores of Harad's rare oasis pools, knowledge which made Eldarion appreciate the delicacy even though the flavor was not quite to his liking.

Leaving the ramyahs to talk amongst themselves like old friends reunited (and Bakr to retreat to the cool of Harmindon's baths), Na'Man and Tufayl graciously offered to guide a tour around the city itself. Aragorn of course accepted, as did Éomer, with Lord Elphir only too happy to join their group. Éomer requested that two of his Rohirrim also come along, with a meaningful look at Aragorn implying that perhaps he ought to request the same. Na'Man had no qualms about the presence of the two Riders, and so they set out into the streets with the two chieftains leading. A handful of Haradrim guards also accompanied them, although they seemed far more at ease than the Rohirrim, who were already beginning to sweat beneath their burnished helms.

While Aragorn, Éomer, Elphir and the chieftains spoke together as they walked, Eldarion dropped back to Túrien's side. She greeted him with a broad smile. There was a happy lightness to her step that made Túrien seem to float along the sand-paved streets.

"Well, what think you of Harad so far?" Eldarion asked her.

Túrien paused to briefly investigate a small, furry creature with a curled tail and clever hands tethered beneath the awning of a shop before answering. The animal blinked up at her curiously. When Túrien knelt to offer an open hand to it, the creature dared to stretch forward and sniff her palm.

"Take care, lady of the west," the shopkeeper warned her. "Even trained monkeys may bite."

"That is just as well, for so do I," laughed Túrien, flashing a toothy white grin up at the woman. Such a pronouncement sent the woman back to her wares with a low chuckle and a shake of her head.

Seeing that the others had stopped and were looking back questioningly at them, Eldarion tapped Túrien's shoulder. "Come Túrien, we mustn't be separated from Adar and Éomer."

Túrien stood, heedless of the sand now dusting the knees of her linen hose. Against the sun's punishing rays she wore overtop a thin cotton shirt and a light grey surcoat laced at the sides without sleeves. With a final wave back at the monkey, she and Eldarion rejoined the group. Where Na'Man was leading them Eldarion did not know, but there was a knowing twinkle in Aragorn's eye when he looked back.

"I think that there is so much to this land and these people that we would never have known had we stayed in Minas Tirith," she said, unexpectedly answering Eldarion's question. "Can you imagine how the lords of Gondor would react if told that the Haradrim answer to the rule of their womenfolk while within the bounds of home? Or if it were suggested that they ought to do the same?"

"It sounds to me as if such an arrangement would suit you fairly well Túrien!" Eldarion laughed.

"It would. I think Naneth would do a wonderful job of ordering life in Minas Tirith...not that Adar doesn't. But truly Eldarion, do you really think Faramir is doing everything for Gondor back home while Naneth and Éowyn sit back with a basket of yarn and knitting needles?"

"Hardly! Can you imagine how Éowyn would react to even the suggestion? No, I would not doubt for a moment that, while Faramir and Naneth tend to the city, Éowyn is even now corresponding back and forth with their settlement in Ithilien, ensuring all is well and that no Haradrim have-"

Suddenly aware that, given their current lodgings and company, the old Gondorian standby of 'marauding Haradrim' related humor was no longer appropriate, Eldarion clamped his teeth down on his tongue in mid-sentence. Thankfully, the Haradrim guards flanking their group seemed not to have heard, or at least were gracious enough to keep their gazes forward as they walked. Still it was a good realization for Eldarion. If all were to turn out as well if not better than everyone present hoped for, the people of Harad would no longer be their enemies. They would, in fact, become not only their allies but also neighbors nearly as close to their borders as Rohan. Aware of his own near-failing and catching yet another suspicious glance from a Haradrim passerby in the street, Eldarion knew then that it was a long road indeed yet ahead.

**OoOoO**

Na'Man led them through crowded bazaars, along wide streets shaded by overhead branches of the aquaducts, and finally to the very edge of Harmindon itself. Eldarion looked up curiously at the rocky faces of Harmindon's natural boundaries as they re-entered the labyrinth. This was not the way they had come when first they arrived. Where exactly were Na'Man and Tufayl taking them?

A sudden rumble shook the ground and set it trembling beneath Eldarion's feet. He had felt such a thing before. Instincts prickling, he caught Túrien by the wrist and drew close to Aragorn.

"Adar! Is that...?"

Amusement played across Aragorn's regal face as he stopped and turned to his children. So it seemed he was indeed aware of whatever it was Na'Man intended. So were Éomer and Elphir, if their lack of alarm at the thundering drumbeat reverberating through the earth beneath their feet were any indication.

"Indeed it is, Eldarion. Last night at dinner, Na'Man invited us to see Harmindon's Mûmakil herd. Having only seen them in battle, I thought perhaps you and Túrien might enjoy a different sort of surprise?"

Túrien and Eldarion's mouths dropped open in stunned delight. Na'Man's laughter echoed along the walls of the canyon.

"Come! The Mûmakil and their keepers will be awaiting us!"

When they rounded the bend in the path, Eldarion and Túrien's amazement grew tenfold. They found themselves standing in another opening in the labyrinth; not quite as large as the hollow where Harmindon nestled but fairly close. This it seemed was the truth path of the  _Na'Man ab Jubayr._  The spring burst free of its casement a ways up the rocky face, flowing clear and cool down the stones to form a small lake. Around these waters grew thick, marshy grass which covered nearly half of the open ground. All of this was beautiful in and of itself, here in the midst of Harad's desert. Everyone had eyes only for the Mûmakil though.

It was the first time Eldarion had ever seen the Haradrims' war-beasts without their fearsome paint, barbed chains and mounted turrets. He had been expecting their vast size after facing them at the Sea of Rhûn. What he had not been expecting was the variety of the herd.

Bull Mûmaks with their tusks as long as sailing ships stood against the walls, some simply leaning and others rubbing their sides as if scratching an itch. They seemed altogether calm and content, which was something Eldarion had never seen from such vast beasts before. He had also never seen Mûmakil cows and calves before.

The cows were significantly smaller than the bulls, and entirely without their mates' enormous tusks. They were still each large enough to dwarf a barn by themselves though, and their footfalls shook the ground as they milled around the shores of the lake, grazing on the long grass. Haradrim, easily spotted by their bright red headwraps, walked without fear among the legs of these giants, even daring to lay hand on their tree-trunk legs in passing.

"I would remind you that you are the first folk from west of the river Poros that we have permitted to see this place in centuries..." Na'Man was saying "...but your faces suggest such is unneeded. Even you, lords of the west, are as wide-eyed as children!"

Elphir smiled and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. Even nearly twice Eldarion's age as he was, the Prince of Dol Amroth still seemed young in his amazement.

"It would be a fool indeed who did not marvel at such a sight...a fool, or a blind man!"

Even Éomer stood rooted to the spot, unable to look away. Turning to Na'Man he spoke with the keen interest of a fellow mounted rider. "The creatures permit your people to walk among them so freely, even with their young close at hand? Surely animals so large would endanger their keepers simply by walking from place to place?"

Tufayl shook his head. "Nay, King Éomer. These are the people of Harmindon's herd, and so I myself dare not approach, the same for you and your fellow guests. Mûmakil are as clever as they are mighty however, and know their riders from sight. I have seen the largest bull in Pazghar's herd hold his foot suspended in midair to avoid crushing a man on the ground."

"And yet they fought so fiercely on the Fields of Pelennor as to have earned your people an eternal place in Gondor's tales of the battle," said Aragorn. The adventure-loving ranger seemed to have resurfaced from within the king at the sight of the Mûmakil. He crouched down to one knee on the ground, laying a hand flat against the earth to better feel the vibrations of the Mûmak's footsteps. "To us, they have become one-in-the-same as your people, in that one never appears without the other in our stories."

This seemed to please the chieftains greatly. The two men smiled at Aragorn, and Na'Man's head bobbed in agreement, his black eyes gleaming.

"In that at least, the people of the West have taken the measure of our people correctly. The Mûmakil are the heart of our tribe. Without a Mûmakil, there cannot be a tribe. They carry the pride and honor of our lineage on their backs, and bear generation after generation across the desert. After a Mûmak dies, we do the same for them by carrying them with us wherever we go..." Na'Man's hand fell to the chain of black thread and bone beads he wore around his neck. "These are the bones of my grandfather's father's Mûmak. Now, my son learns to ride the bull that bore my grandfather into battle."

"Is Sufyan here?" asked Tufyal. Shading his eyes from the son, the chieftain of Pazghar scanned the herd. "I did not have a chance to speak properly with him last night, and no doubt neither did our guests."

Na'Man chuckled. "No doubt. He is here, and I will call him to us."

Raising his fingers to his mouth, Na'Man whistled twice, loud and sharp enough to make Eldarion wince. Many heads turned around the lake, including many of the Mûmakil. A figure broke away from the gathering, setting out through the long grass toward them. When one of the smallest calves came toddling after him, gigantic ears flopping as it ran, Túrien gasped aloud with delight.

When Sufyan drew close enough to greet them, Eldarion recognized him as the dancer whom Túrien had been appreciating at dinner the night before. He was of a sturdier build than Na'Man, with strong arms and squarer features. There was much of his mother, Sawda, in him now that Eldarion cared to notice. He did not sport a beard like Na'Man or Tufayl, and the smoothness of his face told Eldarion he was likely about Elfwine's age. Sufyan greeted them with the same salute as Eldarion had seen Na'Man and the other chieftains use upon first meeting with Aragorn and Éomer; a palm inward toward the face before turning it outward.

"Kings Aragorn of the White City and Éomer of the Mark, Princess Túrien, Prince Eldarion and Lord Elphir, I introduce to you my son by Ramyah Sawda, Sufyan," said Na'Man formally.

Aragorn bowed his head to the young Haradrim. "Well met, Sufyan son of Na'Man of Harmindon. And well met to your friend as well!"

The Mûmak calf which had followed Sufyan was lingering close behind him, almost as if shy of the strangers. Even as young as it obviously was, it was still as tall as a mighty oak tree with legs as wide around as one. A swat from its trunk could send a grown man flying. Sufyan turned back to it with a fond grin though, catching the end of its trunk and giving it a gentle tug.

"Gïdjls is bold, for a calf his age. It is not often that the Mûmakil see Westerlings through calm eyes."

"Westerlings?" Asked Túrien, bemused.

"Sufyan!" Na'Man's voice was stern.

"Interesting..." Eldarion couldn't keep the ironic laughter out of his voice. "It seems that, just as Middle-Earth has its Easterlings, it also has so-called 'Westerlings' in counterpoint."

Sufyan's gaze lowered. The chieftain's son seemed abashed. "I apologize, Äke...honored guests. Given your enmity with the folk of Rhûn, I should have thought before I spoke."

Aragorn however was not offended, as indeed Eldarion had not expected him to be. "No apologies are needed, Sufyan. Indeed, from where the people of Harad stand, 'Westerlings' is a more than apt name for the folk of Gondor and the Westfold. Éomer?"

Éomer it seemed was otherwise occupied. While Sufyan and the others had been speaking, the Mûmak calf had been edging around ever closer and closer to the group. Now within reach, it was stretching out its trunk, altogether bringing to mind a child trying to take a curious poke at a strange new plaything.

Éomer for his part did not seem to know how to react. The closer the trunk got, the wider his eyes grew. The king of Rohan stood his ground though, not even flinching when the tip of the calf's trunk was practically touching his ear. His expression did more than speak for him; it practically shouted a thousand words in Na'Man and Tufyal's direction, most of them demanding to know what he ought to do.

"Er...?" was all he said, for risk of startling the calf by actually speaking.

"All is well, King Éomer," said Sufyan quickly. "Gïdjls will not harm you, but he may-"

Even as Sufyan spoke, the Mûmak's probing trunk made contact. It ruffled its way through Éomer's greying gold hair, mussing it across his face and putting some parts of it on end. Everyone watched and waited with baited breath to see how Éomer reacted.

For what seemed the first time since they had left Minas Tirith, Éomer broke out into laughter. It was a short chuckle, little more, but still the horsemaster's bearded face grew lively with mirth. Ducking his head out of Gïdjls' reach, he batted the probing trunk away as one might the swishing tail of a mischievous horse.

"Go back to your master! This 'Westerling' has nothing for you!"

Hearing Éomer laugh and seeing his thoroughly tousled hair, Túrien broke into laughter too. Eldarion was not far behind, and even Aragorn and the other men shared amused grins at the king of Rohan's expense. Sufyan bribed Gïdjls away with a handful of fruit, and with him as their shepherd they walked amongst the towering legs of Harmindon's Mûmakil. Every time Eldarion looked up and saw the sun blotted out by the enormous figure of a Mûmak or felt the earth rumble beneath his feet, he thought less and less of fighting at the Sea of Rhûn. Rather, he now looked forward to what the rapidly brightening future might bring.

**OoOoO**


	18. Father and Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Aragorn and the others are away in Harad, Faramir as Steward of Gondor works to keep the affairs of the realm in order. As demands pile up, Faramir enlists the help of Elboron, and eventually others as well.

 

* * *

 

“Lamedon had submitted the names of how many knights for the jousting lists?”

                “Two and twenty.”

                “Are you certain? I had thought that was the number of chests of iron ore Erebor proposed to trade annually in exchange for two hundred bolts of un-dyed linen.”

                “Erm...I have it written here...No, it was two and twenty knights for the tournament from _Anfalas_ , thirty from Lamedon, and fifteen barrels of fish oil from Dale to trade for...for...oh dear.”

                “My lord Steward! I have your order for the fifty new lances! Would you prefer them sent to the city stables, or the armory?”

                A harried look not often seen on the face of Prince Faramir of Ithilien was beginning to make its presence known. Since Aragorn and the others had set out for Harad some weeks ago it seemed everyone within fifty leagues of Minas Tirith had demands on the Steward’s time. Most days he rose before dawn, even before Éowyn, and stumbled face-first into bed long after the stars were hung across the sky. Governing in Aragorn’s stead was something that Faramir had grown well-accustomed to over the years. However, this particular month it seemed, the king had chosen a fine time to go running off into the unknown.

                With The Brown Lands bordering the southern tip of the Greenwood finally declared safe and open after hundreds of years of harbouring orcs, wargs, and other foul creatures spawned in the ruins of Dol Goldur, Dale and Erebor were at long last ready to open their doors to the south of Middle-Earth. Word had come on the leg of a raven sent from the Lonely Mountain, signed by both King Bard II of Dale and King Thorin III Stonehelm of Erebor. The two kings of the north expressed keen interest in opening trade with Gondor. Faramir of course had been quick to reply in the affirmative. To his surprise and quiet dismay, no less than a week later a reply had come in the form of a full trade manifesto. Ever since it had been a firestorm of meetings with various heads of the realm’s commerce guilds, trying to compose a suitable counter-offer for both the human and dwarf realms’ proposals.         

                All this would have been an enormous task to contend with in and of itself. However, Faramir had already been embroiled in a project of his own making before ever the first raven came. With that year marking the thirtieth anniversary of the end of the War of the Ring and Aragorn’s coronation, plans were underway to host a tournament in honor of the occasion alongside the yearly harvest festival. Now, even with Elboron recruited as his assistant, Faramir was still completely and utterly swamped.

                Signing whatever it was that a scribe was desperately trying to hold forward under his quill, Faramir called back to the carpenter as he walked “Have the lances sent to the armory, they’ll just be underfoot in the stables. Is the Master of Coin expecting us for our meeting at one o’clock?”

                “He sends his apologies, but must ask if we can accommodate him for a midday meeting instead?” said Elboron, hastily thumbing through a list of names and times.

                Faramir sighed. “We will have to miss our lunch then...again. Elboron, send a page to tell him we will meet at noon as he requests.”

                “There is also the matter of choosing our own knights for the tournament, Father. One of the only lists not yet submitted is Ithilien’s.”

                “Blast!” It was also not commonplace that Faramir fell to cursing, but the thought of another meal hastily eaten in stolen bites between meetings had put a damper on his spirits. “Is that a task I can entrust to you, Elboron?”

                Picking knights for a tournament should have been a thoroughly enjoyable prospect for a young man, but when Elboron hesitated Faramir immediately chided himself. He had already piled more than enough work on his son’s shoulders. When he had thought to have Elboron learn his future duties as Steward by shadowing him that summer, Faramir had not intended to put his son to work as his stand-in for all intents and purposes.

                “No, do not answer that,” said Faramir, stopping to lay a hand on Elboron’s shoulder. “You are keeping me afloat as it is already. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your hard work at my side.”

                Tired as they both were, surrounded by a gaggle of officials, scribes and lordlings all urging them along to their next point of business, Faramir’s heart brightened when Elboron smiled at him. On the morning Elboron was born, Faramir had sworn to himself that there would never come a day when he did not have time or presence of mind to spare his son a kind word. He wondered if Denethor would have thought well of his generous, warm-hearted grandson. He knew Boromir would have. No doubt Boromir would have delighted in Elboron and doted on his nephew to no end.

                There still remained the unfinished matter of...well...everything. At this rate Ithilien would have no knights entered in their country’s own tournament, the kings of Dale and Erebor would be growing grey and impatient by the time they ever received a response, and the harvest festival celebration itself would go off only half-planned. Looking at the pile of papers held in both his and Elboron’s hands, Faramir wished he could be in two places at one time.

                That was when the answer dawned on him, and he nearly cursed his own stupidity aloud. Instead he laughed, a sheepish chuckle that made both Elboron and their swarm of followers (harassers) look at him curiously.

                “Gentlemen,” said Faramir, addressing the others. “Please, if you could, continue on to the Tower of Ecthelion. We will meet you there presently, but first there is someone most important whom we must consult with.”

                Elboron’s expression, at first confused, began to fill with comprehension and more than a little relief as the officials moved away across the Citadel yard. He even knew exactly which direction to turn without needing to follow Faramir’s lead.

                “Are we calling for a yield then, Father?” he asked, blonde curls bouncing on his brow as they made for the House of Kings.

                Faramir huffed sheepishly. “Yes...we’re going to find your mother.”  

 

**OoOoO**

                 

                They found Éowyn in the solar, reading a book. Arwen sat nearby at an enormous wooden loom, working at her favorite hobby of tapestry weaving. The women looked up when Faramir and Elboron entered the room, and a triumphant grin turned Éowyn’s face smug.

                “Impressive; two days and one morning managed since that last letter from the kings in the north arrived. I had wagered on you lasting three days, but it seems I still best Arwen in this, who generously granted you four.”

                “You were wagering on our coming?” asked Faramir, incredulous but not entirely surprised.

                “Why not? We had little else to do, what with my garden at Ithilien so far away and the girls at their studies.”

                Éowyn’s voice was chiding, but even so there was laughter on her lips as she beckoned Faramir and Elboron into the room. Arwen rose from her seat at the loom, un-tucking the long sleeves of her gown from where they had been pinned up out of her way. A scene of what looked a great deal like Oliphants fording a river peeked half-finished from among the twining threads. The queen settled herself on a high backed chair with an amused gleam in her grey eyes.

                “You do yourself and the house of Stewards credit with your efforts, Faramir, you and Elboron both,” she said “but I am glad you decided to seek us out. Now, perhaps you had better tell us everything that needs to be done, and we can settle how best to delegate from there?”

                Faramir relief was palpable. He and Elboron compared notes briefly before he cleared his throat. “There is quite a bit I’m afraid, Your Gra-...Arwen. We’ve been trying to make a full catalogue of our potential trade offerings, comparing them to the lists of desired goods from Dale and Erebor, and weigh their value against the proposed exchanges. Erebor has a great deal of raw ore and other materials which we could certainly use, especially with plans in place for Osgiliath’s final restoration phase. Dale also has access to some of the Greenwood’s refined craft items, thanks to their elvish ambassador’s ability to negotiate with wily old King Thranduil. Although Thranduil has shown no interest in direct trade with Gondor, King Bard implied that he was willing to act as something of a go-between, reselling Greenwood goods to us down the River Running...at a significant markup, that is.”

                As expected, the notion of even indirect trade with one of the last remaining elvish nations in Middle-Earth sparked immediate interest in Arwen. Although Legolas and his colony flourished in Ithilien, they were not a large settlement, with no means of providing for others beyond what they could furnish for themselves in their new home. The thought of elf-made breads, wines and other rarities brought a light to Arwen’s eyes and a renewed lilt to her clear speech.

                “At a significant markup, indeed? Perhaps we may be able to remind King Bard II that there are many goods which we, having access to the sea ports of Pelargir and Dol Amroth, can provide to Dale and Esgaroth which they are unlikely to find anywhere else east of the Misty Mountains. It may also help King Thorin III to find his generosity if it is pointed out that there mines of old in the Ered Nimrais which, if reopened, could render his own ore somewhat less of a precious commodity to the folk of Gondor.”

                “There are?” asked Elboron, surprised.

                “Oh yes,” said Arwen with a mischievous wink. “In the Dwimorberg.”

                Elboron blanched, the very name immediately turning him white. “The Dimholt Road?! But...Lady Arwen...surely we could never mine the Paths of the Dead...?”

                 Arwen smiled reassuringly, reaching out to take Elboron’s hand. “Take ease, Faramirion, you know as much and so do I. The spirits of the dead have left the Dwimorberg at Aragorn’s word, never to return. However, some places in this world are best left undisturbed, occupied or no.”

                “Even if we were to propose such a thing, I doubt we could ever convince any workers to actually stay in that place,” said Faramir.

                “Indeed. Dwarves do not trouble themselves with such trifles as spectres though when there is buried treasure to seek; Moria proved as much. It is a bluff, but hopefully one that King Thorin III will not see past as we press him to lower his price.”

“Was there anything else which requires attention, husband?” asked Éowyn, prompting.

“Well, there was the matter of the harvest festival, and the tournament...”

“Which are no doubt far more commanding of yours and Elboron’s interest than a game of written chess with dwarves and lakemen?” Éowyn teased.

Faramir raised an eyebrow, holding back the trade manifesto from Erebor and Dale. “I can bandy crooked words with the best of them, I will have you know. It just so happens that this tournament is also pressing business, requiring the utmost in careful planning and attention to detail. And I am a wise man, who knows how to delegate to the most capable hands.”

“Go then, O wise Steward of Gondor!” laughed Arwen, rising and snatching the paper from Faramir’s grasp. “Go and order our knights, our horses and lances, that we might finally humble Éomer and his Rohirrim when they meet us on the tourney field! We leave such matters in _your_ capable hands.”

Faramir and Elboron were just turning to leave when Éowyn called them back. The former Shieldmaiden produced a sheet of paper from between the pages of her books. Names were neatly ordered upon it in her methodical hand.

“Our knights for Ithilien’s tournament lists. I took the liberty of entering you in both the joust and the melee this year, Elboron. If anyone is going to unhorse your cousin this year, I am going to selfishly hope that it might be you.”

Elboron took the page from Éowyn with a good-natured grimace. “Thank you, Mother, but I suspect it might be Eldarion or Elfwine amongst the top challengers again. And if Legolas accepts your invite to fight the melee...”

The White Lady of Ithilien smiled innocently in the face of Faramir’s raised eyebrows. “I am simply putting our best blades forward. After all, there are no rules written that bar an elf from competing, and his folk _are_ for all point and purpose people of Ithilien.”

“You are quite determined that Ithilien should claim a prize at this year’s festival tourney, aren’t you my love?” Faramir laughed, leaning in to kiss Éowyn’s brow. “Even off the field of battle, you are more competitive by half than all the knights in Gondor combined!”

With that, the two camps broke to go about their respective work. Arwen and Éowyn departed for the Tower of Ecthelion, there to keep Faramir’s meeting with the Master of Coin. Faramir and Elboron meanwhile, now free of further bankrolling and bookkeeping, made arrangements to oversee the renovation of Minas Tirith’s tourney arena. But first, they had a far more pressing appointment to keep. For the first time in days, Faramir was able to sit down and enjoy a proper midday meal with his son. He and Elboron poured over the list of knights from Éowyn, happily debating the prospects of each in the melee or the joust. It was the sort of conversation Faramir would have given anything to have with his own father while growing up. The time for that was past now, but not lost. When Elboron playfully tossed a grape at him after Faramir downplayed the abilities of one of his favorite champions, Faramir relished Elboron’s familiarity. He loved his son, and his son knew it. That above all else; trade deals and tournaments and even the line of the Stewards itself, was what was important.

 

**OoOoO**


End file.
